


Harry Potter and the Lost City

by AvydReedr



Series: Harry Potter and the Path To Knowledge [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Competent Harry, Competitive!Hogwarts, English, F/M, Fantasy, Fiction M, Gen, Good!Dumbledore, Morally Grey Harry Potter, No Bashing, No Slash, Pre-Hogwarts, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 96,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvydReedr/pseuds/AvydReedr
Summary: [Book 1 of The Path to Knowledge: Harry Potter and the Lost City]A different upbringing leaves Harry Potter with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and a genuine passion for magic. His new life eventually throws him on a journey for answers - those relating to his mysterious cursed scar, his unknown parentage, and the intricacies of magic itself. Alas, if only it was ever that easy... (AU Pre-Hogwarts)
Relationships: Alicia Portwood/William Portwood
Series: Harry Potter and the Path To Knowledge [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799083
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. In Loving Memory

**AvidReedr PROUDLY PRESENTS**

**HARRY POTTER AND THE PATH TO KNOWLEDGE**

* * *

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER ONE: IN LOVING MEMORY**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**A huge thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

Voldemort stepped into the moonlight, seemingly lost in deep thought. He paused, looking around, as though he were expecting something. When nothing happened, he sighed. With a stride, he glided across the street pavement, bathed in robes of liquid night. The shadows seemed to revolve around him, as the moonlight in the area dissolved into the darkness of his cloak, plunging his immediate surroundings in a most sombre light. He was concealed from those who could do him harm, few that they were.

His cloak billowed, though no howl of the wind, no touch of the breeze swept through the streets of Godric's Hollow. Still, the cold night air of October nipped his cheek, and in response, he adjusted his robes and glared at the house before him, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth.

Contrary to popular belief, Voldemort wasn't completely heartless. He didn't enjoy killing, or murdering, of pillaging, or any of the other vile and atrocious acts of man. He simply saw the most effective way of achieving his dreams and would use anything he could do to get there. Unfortunately, that usually involved a death or two by his hand.

It had been a mistake to gather such a large influence and outright fight against the Ministry. He knew this now. All the distasteful and highly unnecessary acts of his followers had painted him and his movement in a bad light.

If given the chance to redo everything, Voldemort knew that he would have taken his time plotting and scheming. He was a snake and no matter the advantages of letting himself stand in the light, snakes were meant to play in the shadows. If snakes were hidden, their opponents wouldn't notice the fangs in their chest before it was too late.

'Yes,' Voldemort thought. There had been worse ideologies than his own, but they hadn't been questioned because they had done everything nice and proper, and had been voted in. If for some reason, he was to have a chance at redemption, he would do everything again. But redemption was far behind him. He had gone too far to back out now, and he was so close to achieving what he wanted, even if there had been so many unnecessary acts of violence and death.

Voldemort's stringy black hair stood strikingly against his alarmingly pale white skin as he contemplated his life choices. A small sneer graced his face and he shook his head, remembering his foolish choices as a young boy.

Finally, after a long wait, he began to stir. Glancing at both ends of the street, he walked briskly, his bloodshot eyes glinting with a vestige of madness as he encroached upon the three-foot walls of a small, two-storied cottage. He touched the cobble divider and recoiled. _Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum._ Typical.

The poor excuse for a pure-blooded home bore down on him, its stone foundation, bricked walls and wooden window sills mocking him relentlessly. The tiled rooftop looked surprisingly imperious, even in its dishevelled condition. The moonlight danced in Voldemort's eyes as he smirked.

 _Potter Cottage_.

Silently, the billowing mass of shadow tilted his head, his eyebrows rising, eyes widening slightly and lips curling, like a child evaluating his new toy. After a moment of deliberate consideration and acknowledgement of the formidable wards before him, the cloaked figure reached into his robes with a frail and sinewy hand to pull out a long yew wand.

After slight muttering and swishing, the faint shimmering of the wards was no longer visible. With his momentary obstruction removed, he slid his wand back into his robes and gave a wave with his left hand, unlocking and opening the small wooden gate in one move. He tutted, sounding—almost—disappointed.

He stepped inside, and a pensive look drew upon his face, 'I could finish this without anyone ever knowing I was here,' Voldemort thought. 'Merlin knows I'm not in the mood to deal with all the screaming.'

Britain's current Dark Lord brushed past the gate with what one might call a 'spring' in his step. He wasn't going to waste time like the last time. Longbottom Manor had been such a poor excuse for a raid. The Lestranges had been so distracted with looting that they had failed to accomplish what he had actually sent them out to do, which was _killing the Longbottom Heir._ And they had gotten Rookwood killed too. Such a shame, in all honesty. But perhaps it was for the best.

Voldemort took a deep breath. If he hurried this up, there would be little chance of being intercepted by _him_. He was almost at the front door when he paused, a grimace on his face.

"I forgot to feed Nagini tonight," he sighed, shaking his head slightly, "she's going to be insufferable tomorrow. Always so temperamental…"

Upon reaching the front door, Britain's resident Dark Lord sneered. There were no inner wards protecting the house itself. No multiple ward perimeters. Nothing beyond the very basics any wizarding house should have. Voldemort was sure that the Potters were a pure-blood family and one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight at that. So what were they playing at? Why were their defences so weak? Was this a trap? It didn't matter, he realised. There was no way out of this. If he left now, come morning they would notice the removal of the wards, and any hopes he had of dealing with this prophecy prematurely would be squandered. He had to deal with this immediately, and that meant he had little time to second guess himself. Still, it wouldn't do to alert the Potter household and subsequently, the entire neighbourhood of his arrival. Voldemort furrowed his brow in deep thought, recalling what information had been gathered over the past few days.

It took the Dark Lord a brief moment to reach a decision. The initial wards at the perimeter of the cottage had been disabled permanently. He could detect no wards placed on the structure of the house. If there were any, they were too weak to notice, and would likely not interfere with his misdoings. It was very likely that the Potters had placed all of their faith in the strength of the _Fidelius Charm_ , as he could not detect anything else close by that even resembled the strength of a ward. This decision was made almost certainly at the behoovement of Dumbledore, the controlling old coot. Admittedly, it _was_ a formidable attempt at subterfuge, of that there was no doubt. It _was_ also a layer of protection he doubted he would have been able to circumvent had he not been told the Secret.

How convenient that the Rat—Peter Pettigrew—had been so disposed to betray his closest friends. He _had_ served him faithfully, of that there was no doubt. The poor excuse for a wizard was too afraid to do anything other than that.

But it had come merely as a necessity when he ordered Bellatrix to dispose of the despicable man. Even though Voldemort valued loyalty to his cause more than anything else, he could not be assured of Pettigrew’s character—while the Secret had been very helpful, it unnerved him that Pettigrew had been too quick to change sides, too quick to betray. The Dark Lord did not appreciate _that_. It simply wouldn't do. It had been best to deal with him before he became a rampant issue, and so his devotion had been understandably short-lived.

His focus returned to the door and his mirth returned. There was no point in using his wand for something as trivial as _Alohomora_. With a simple brush of his finger, he unlocked the door and it swung open on its own as if begging him to enter. Voldemort then stepped inside the quaint, if not shoddy, little house.

The wooden floorboard threatened to squeak if he took another step, so he cast a silencing charm on himself and the floor. Voldemort cast his gaze imperiously around the house, his eyes demanding that the cottage give up its secrets. He locked onto the staircase leading up to the rooms and slid across the living room. He had been informed that this was the only way up to the bedrooms.

The house was dark and silent. Apparently, the Potters had retired early on Hallowe'en. How unfortunate—for them.

A few moments later and he had reached the corridor that led towards the children's room. He risked a glance into the room with a door ajar, to find that it was indeed the child's room.

Seconds later, he was inside, his wand already drawn when he saw something that made him falter. There was one cot in the middle of the, but two sleeping newborns of an uncannily similar age.

'Twins,' he thought, 'so that's what Pettigrew was going on about that night. And I had dismissed it for the ramblings of a madman.' Voldemort silently cursed Pettigrew's name. He wouldn't even begin to believe it had been his fault for not paying attention to the Rat's ramblings.

There was no way to know which was the prophesied child. His red eyes darted between the two sleeping newborns, and he ran through his options. He could kill both of the children right as they slept, but the Potters must have certainly put up separate protections for their children, and if they were alerted that one was harmed, they may reach him before he could finish both of them off, and that would just be an inconvenience. Finish the parents first? No, that would take too long. Dumbledore was certainly on his way here by now, or about to alert the Potters of his presence. He shook his head slightly.

He _would_ return another time if the need arose. He had to pick one child—both would have been too cumbersome for Voldemort's frail figure, though he would never admit it out loud—and Disapparate. Flying was too noticeable, he considered, and since the wards against apparition _had_ been taken down earlier, so there was no harm in it. Yes, that was best.

Now, which brat to choose? With a gamble, he gingerly picked up the child with his free arm and held him at a distance. A smear of repulsion hit him, and he felt like chucking the child out of the window. Yes, this was definitely the child. Something felt so… _wrong_ about him. It was almost like a strong aversion charm was cast directly on the child, but it seemed to come from inside the boy, not surrounding it, the way magic normally acts. There was no need to take both children. He removed his cloak and cast it aside, as it would only further impede his movements. Then, swiftly, he pulled out his wand and felt the familiar knot in the bottom of his stomach. As the world twisted before his eyes, he thought he had caught a flash of red fire in the corner of his eye.

Within an instant, he was in a completely different scene, just as was expected. With a long look around, he evaluated his location. It was perfect. He doubted anyone would try and look for the boy _here_. This place was so boorish that no proper wizard—him notwithstanding—would ever dare to travel here unless they had some pertinent business that couldn't be solved elsewhere. Much like him, of course.

He had no doubt his dark robes and Gaunt figure would attract undesired attention, so he set out to accomplish the necessary deed as quickly as possible. So, he all but dropped the child onto the floor.

Then, with a whip, his wand had flashed out once again, prepared to strike. He nearly faltered once the child opened his eyes, obviously disturbed from his sleep with the sudden apparition. Staring damningly back at him was a matt of hair almost as black as his own, and two suspiciously green eyes that seemed wry with amusement.

With a drawn-out, unnecessary pronunciation and wand gesture, The Dark Lord Voldemort flicked his wrist towards the child's forehead, and with a bored, almost lazy sneer, he growled the two words that would, from that day onward, change the entirety of wizarding Britain forever.

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

A burst of green light later, and the Dark Lord vanished, along with any trace of his being, save for the robes that had adorned his pale body that night. His wand was shattered, burst apart from the sudden magic that had destroyed him.

With the burst of green light, the young child had begun to cry, tears falling down his cheeks. But there wasn't a noise to be heard. His whole nervous system was aflame, with the remnant power from the Killing Curse that was not dispelled from the protective burst of magic having fallen upon him, making him writhe in uncontrollable, but silent, pain.

It took an hour for the pain to fade away, though, oddly, some of it seemed to concentrate rather alarmingly on his forehead. The young boy, frail and weak from the drain that the curse had put on his body and his magic, lay motionlessly on the hard ground of the alleyway, and if he was bothered by the grime and dirt on the street, he did not show it.

It was only a few minutes after he had fallen asleep when a pair of robed individuals came into sight. They walked close together, down the street, enjoying each other's company. They chatted softly, seemingly oblivious to the young boy that laid curled up in green blankets on the floor near them, hidden in the shadows.

They were newly-weds, and if anyone had suggested that the couple expected to find an abandoned child during their romantic nighttime stroll, the remark would have been scoffed at and left undignified by a response.

This is why, when the boy shifted during his sleep, and the green fabric of his blanket fell into view, Alicia Portwood gave a small gasp, and pointed towards the bundle of green they had almost missed. Her husband, noticing her action, turned to find out what had gotten his wife startled. He was surprised to see what was undoubtedly a small child lying on the ground.

Noticing the black robes strewn near the child—a clear sign that he had been left there, abandoned—William Portwood looked towards his wife as if he was trying to calculate her most probable reaction to this new encounter. Alicia brushed her blonde hair out of her face to get a better view of the child as she knelt down beside it.

There were many strange things about the Portwoods, one could find. Some of the more noticeable things included the odd tailor-made robes they wore or the boots and gloves that glinted like snakeskin as they had walked, or the matching pointed hats they had decided to wear on a whim. They were most certainly not normal, all things considered. But perhaps the strangest thing about the two of them was the fact that they were both genuinely magical; she a witch, he a wizard. 

Alicia Portwood (née Giordano) was from a relatively new wizarding line that had emigrated from Sicily a while back to escape the effects of Grindelwald's war. They had stuck around when Alicia's grandmother married an Irish half-blood, but most of the family had returned to Italy since then. Alicia made no effort to hide her muggle heritage, though she rarely ever concerned herself with the muggle world. 

On the other hand, William Portwood was a British pure-blooded wizard, like his forefathers before him. He knew that while his family might not share the same bigoted views as the other purebloods, they were still proud of their magical ancestry, and William knew how well his father would take the notion of adopting a child, who might not even be a wizard, into the family.

Alicia had picked up the child by now and was cradling him, attempting to soothe the distressed boy with a soft voice. He tried to voice his objection to what obviously seemed to be on his wife's mind, but one fierce and protective look from her shut him right up, and he resigned himself to what was inevitably about to follow.

"Alicia, love," he called, grabbing her attention from the small child, "if, by the age of eight, he shows not even the slightest bit of accidental magic, you know we cannot keep him. It would raise too many questions." He cleared his throat. "Besides, he might still have family out there, looking for him."

"Bloody good family they are if they care so little for their child that they leave him on the street," she spat, viciously.

'It doesn't matter if they care for him or not," he argued. "We can go to Gringotts tomorrow and get a blood test to see if he has any relatives that can take him in. If there are none, then we can apply for adoption. Alright?"

Alicia nodded curtly. She understood. While the Portwoods might not be as stuck up as the rest of British pure-bloods, they would never allow a muggle to be raised under their name. She hoped that, at least, he would be a squib, for then she would not have to completely cast him away. Grabbing the arm of his wife that was not occupied by a child, William pulled her closer to him and smiled reassuringly. With her confidence restored, they began to walk back home.

The Portwoods, together with the small, restless child, continued down the street. Alicia took the time to scrutinize the child's features. His black hair resembled William's, but he had green eyes - as she did. His puffy cheeks were cold to the touch, so she cradled him closer, perhaps a bit too tightly, but he didn't seem to mind. He did, however, squirm and make faces, as he kept trying to claw at something on his forehead.

Concerned, Alicia brushed away the hair that concealed his forehead and was repulsed to find a nasty red scar right there, a stark contrast against the child's fair skin.

She prodded William and he looked over, his eyes widening when he saw the scar. He gently made her stop fussing so he could get a good look at the child. Pulling out his pale wand, he waved it over the scar, and a tingling sensation rose through the air, accompanied by a concerned look from him.

"Alicia, I-" he paused, wondering how to best approach the topic with his wife, who grew more and more impatient as time passed.

"Well, William? What is it?" she said, clearly expectant. He wondered briefly what kind of cruelty it would have taken to curse a child, and whispered to his wife:

"It's Dark Magic. Some sort of curse, I think." It went unsaid that the boy was magical - he didn't see how a muggle child could have received this kind of curse. But he probably still had a family. William looked down to his wife and tried to catch anything that would let him know how she was feeling.

Alicia's head was down, staring at the child, and he couldn't get a glimpse of her expression due to the fallen hair around her head. She continued to hold the child tightly for a few minutes before she finally looked up into his eyes. 

"Promise me that we will do our very best to help this child and rid him of whatever evil curse has been spurned upon him," Alicia stared unnervingly at the scar on the boy's forehead, "no child should be left to suffer such a terrible fate." She said the last part rather softly, but William heard it all the same. The calm determination his wife was showing was rather telling of how grave she thought the offence. William had rarely ever seen her that way.

He agreed to her statement automatically. "I promise, sweetheart. We'll do our very best to cure him," he said, trying to reassure her, "even if I have to call in every favour I have," he added, hoping to appease his wife, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that. At his final words, she leaned over and kissed him softly, a strange mix of happiness and peace in her eyes. She then grabbed his hand and led him on, down the street, back towards their home.

It was only as they were arriving at 'William's Wizarding Workshop' that Alicia noticed the glint of something golden amongst the blankets the child had been wrapped in. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she looked at the small embroidery in the edge of the soft fabric, realising it was his name. She bundled him, mulling over the name, deciding she liked it.

Harry Portwood. It had a nice ring to it.

With a sigh, she leaned against her husband, wondering if they were truly ready for a child.

* * *

Dumbledore reclined in his plush armchair, sucking on a sherbet lemon while reading tomorrow's paper.

The large, circular office was dimly lit, and the many volumes that adorned bookshelves on either side contributed to the musty aroma. In front of the Headmaster were three delicate instruments, all silver, and currently whizzing and working away.

The Samhain Festival, or Hallowe'en for the muggle-borns, had been resoundingly pleasant this year, with no big surprises. The pumpkin pie had been most scrumptious, and Albus Dumbledore was currently contemplating leaving aside his reading and giving the kitchens a visit, to see if there were any leftovers.

It was only as the clock struck eleven when Dumbledore stirred at all, his eyes widening to an alarming size.

The small silver cube on his desk had begun to pulse with a green light. Dumbledore stood up surprisingly quickly for a man of his age, and picked up the cube, holding it closer for inspection. There was no doubt of it. The wards at Potter Cottage had already fallen. The Headmaster hurried down his office, his thoughts flying at impossible speeds. Someone had betrayed them. A spy, in their midst. And they had also been the Secret Keeper.

Albus Dumbledore never swore, but he was sorely tempted to curse the name of whoever had willingly cracked. He then pushed all the thoughts of traitors and spies, choosing instead to cast a Patronus and alert Professors McGonagall to have the Order on standby. He cast a second Patronus, this time for Professor Snape, and asked him to update him on Voldemort's whereabouts. He did all of this while racing towards the front of his office, hoping that he was not too late. The enchantment on the cube would only check the integrity of the wards every ten minutes—so Dumbledore had no way of knowing if they had just arrived, or if the intruder had been there for a while. At most, he could only hope that the attacker would be stalled by the other wards, or be busy duelling the Potters.

Fawkes, perturbed by the racket, noticed his distress and began to trill calmly, gliding from his perch to the ancient wizards' shoulder.

With a nod from Dumbledore, the phoenix pulled the lofty old wizard into a flash of flame, only to appear in the small bedroom belonging to the Potter children. He sent Fawkes to wake James and Lily while he extended his senses around the room. He caught the faintly lingering feeling of magic and became worried that he had been too late.

Dumbledore walked towards the cot in the leftmost corner of the room and leaned over it, fully expecting the worst.

Upon finding only one child, he felt a strange mix of emotions. Thankfully, Rose was still there, peacefully asleep. But Harry was not. He took a long look around the room, trying to find anything out of place, a sign of what might have happened not moments ago.

The only thing of worth was a dusty old cloak laying on the ground. He gingerly cast several identification spells over it until he was satisfied it wasn't a cursed object.

Dumbledore picked up the cloak with both hands, stretching it out and holding it at arms' length. He watched dust flake down from the coat, with realization dawning on his face.

He believed he had found the final outcome of whatever had happened here. Dumbledore looked over everything again. It was undoubtedly _his_ cloak. The silver snake pin that held the cloak together showed as much. With a sweep of his hand, he cast the piece of fabric aside, focusing instead on the problem at hand, replaying the possible events in his head. Voldemort had arrived there a few minutes earlier, disabling the wards. Then, undetected, he crept through the house and up into this very same room, ignoring James and Lily. That meant he knew exactly where the children were staying. He had then entered the room and had undoubtedly struck at Harry. From there, Dumbledore drew blank. He had arrived after the entire incident, and Voldemort's cloak was sprawled on the ground, right in front of the crib.

'He had stood here,' the Headmaster thought, 'he had stood here and blasted the child into non-existence, and then...'

Turning around, he was suddenly standing face to face with a silvery doe.

"Severus..." Dumbledore breathed.

"I cannot locate the Dark Lord, Headmaster. He has kept his location hidden from me, and I do not know why. But the Dark Mark has grown faint, something which I have not ever seen during my years in his service. Tell me, Albus, what is going on? What has happened?" the doe urged, it's voice rising towards the end of the message. Once Severus' voice had stopped playing, the Patronus quickly dissipated into non-being.

Dumbledore stood in the room for the next five minutes as he tried to deny what had obviously come to pass. His face morphed into a sombre expression, he swiped away at the lone tear that had fallen down his wrinkled cheek. His eyes were misty, and he blinked several times.

"There is no time to grieve now. What's done is done," he murmured to himself, "I must inform the Potters and then break the news to the rest of the Order, and the Ministry as well, of course."

Dumbledore stumbled to the other bedroom, the true magnitude of the event finally hitting him. It was over. They could all rest now. He reached the door to the other bedroom and knocked twice. It took him a minute before he saw the light flick on through the door, and noises of hushed talking.

He was greeted by James and Lily, who opened the door with slight bemusement of his presence. Lily was in a nightgown, and James had hastily thrown on a robe. They both had tousled hair and squinted eyes, both seemingly have just woken up by the knocking.

"Professor Dumbledore, why—"

"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives..." Dumbledore interrupted, his face solemn and tear-stained. "Voldemort is gone, and Harry…" he whispered, "Harry has left us."

At the mention of their youngest child, the Potters raced out the door and into the smallest bedroom, running towards the cot, waking up Rose in the process.

"DUMBLEDORE! WHERE IS MY SON!?" James roared, tears brimming in his eyes. Eyes that showed he knew exactly where his son was.

"The Dark Lord came for him, James. The wards had been breached; I arrived as soon as I could, but it had already come to pass. The Prophecy stated that—"

"WE DON'T CARE ABOUT A STUPID PROPHECY!" Lily wailed, "GIVE US OUR SON BACK!" and then she collapsed onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, tears flowing down her face as she rocked back and forward, cradling Rose, "Give us our sweet, little Harry back…"

Dumbledore faced them and sighed heavily, removing his hat and giving the couple a look filled with melancholy. He was already overbearing on their grief and decided to leave before anything drastic happened. Giving them his condolences, and promising to attend the funeral, he left, off to inform the rest of the Order, and Wizarding Britain, what had come to pass tonight. He would leave out the information about who had defeated Voldemort, as he thought it best for the Potters to grieve in peace, without ruthless reporters reminding them of what they had lost.

James and Lily didn't even register his departure, and instead held each other tightly, muttering words of comfort that neither took solace in. Rose, blissfully unaware of what had happened, or where her brother had gone, simply hugged her parents, trying to rid them of the tears that streaked down their faces, which only served to pull them deeper into morbid grief. James tried to compose himself, and held his head higher, tightening his expression, but one look at a picture of Harry that hung on the wall and he was reverted to his previous torment, pulling his wife and daughter closer, holding them with fear of losing them too. Both Potters choked on the tears rolling down their faces, silently cursing the names of everyone and everything they thought responsible for taking Harry away from them.

The Potters would hold a silent procession the next day. The few people who were present on the morbid day all knew of the prophecy, and though they knew that Harry had been one of the candidates for the prophecy, all had hoped that he would have been able to live a long and fulfilling life before the day came when he would have to face the Dark Lord. All present had given their sincere condolences to the Potters, and any spark of joy at the defeat of Voldemort was quickly dampened by the terrible weather and the thoughts of all those that they had lost.

Save for those present, very little of wizarding Britain even knew of Harry Potter's existence, and fewer mourned the loss of the child, who was believed to have sacrificed himself to save Magical Britain. The Potters did not bury a body, for they could not find one. Instead, Harry's grave sat next to all of the Potters before him, the freshest at Godric Hollow's cemetery. His epitaph read:

**IN LOVING MEMORY OF**

**Harry James Potter**

**'The last enemy to be conquered is death'**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The story is set 20 years in the future. For reference, Harry was born on the 31st of July, 2000.
> 
> Romance only becomes a real subplot after Book Five (Fourth Year at Hogwarts). Any younger is just weird to write.
> 
> Chapters every Sunday!
> 
> Fiction M - English - AU - Pre-Hogwarts - Unique - Slytherin!Harry - Competent!Harry - Grey!Harry - Good!Dumbledore - Competitive!Hogwarts - No Bashing - No Slashing
> 
> Note that this is my first attempt at fanfiction. I'm very much a novice and would appreciate and enjoy feedback and constructive criticism, so please review! Also, if you have any questions, leave them in a review or send me a DM, and I'll try to answer them best I can!


	2. Some Scars Never Heal

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER TWO: SOME SCARS NEVER HEAL**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**A huge thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

Harry groaned, twisting in his bed as he tried to keep the sunlight out of his eyes. Undeterred, the light continued to beam through his open window and gave him no hope of ever going back to sleep. 

Disoriented, he sat up and leaned against his bed’s headrest, blinking several times to wake himself up and get used to the glaringly bright light in his face. Making an offending gesture towards his window, he rubbed his eyes to get rid of the crust that had accumulated there overnight. 

‘Is it Friday already? Wait...Friday?!’ Harry gave an excited little whoop before kicking the blankets off his body, sitting upright and swinging his legs outward, placing them on the pale carpet at the foot of his bed. 

“Today’s my birthday!” he shouted, just before yawning and stretching, letting his blood flow, his eyes alight with joy.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, where he ignored the comments from the bewitched mirror about his “dishevelled appearance” and “incorrigible excuse for hair”, Harry quickly threw on some muggle clothes and trotted downstairs, before the realization hit him. 

“I have school today...” he bemoaned. “Ruddy muggle school. Can’t learn any magic until I’m eleven…what a terrible idea. Just who came up with that, anyway!?” he complained, to no one in particular. 

Harry wondered if he could convince his parents to let him skip school, considering it  _ was _ his birthday. It wasn’t likely, but still, It wouldn’t hurt to try. He trudged down the staircase and into the dining room, sitting down at the table and plunking his bag onto the floor beside him.

“Good morning, dear,” Alicia called from inside the kitchen, where she was currently cooking up a storm, “and happy birthday!”

"Need any help, Mother?" he asked. 

For reasons that Harry wasn't privy to (though considering how careful his parents were with spending, it wasn't hard to guess) the Portwoods didn't have house-elves - unlike most wizarding families of pure-blood descent. That meant any household chores were split amongst the Portwoods, and though Harry didn't mind making his bed in the morning or cleaning up after himself, he did with his mother didn't have to work so hard.

“No, don’t worry dear. This is hardly any trouble at all. You go sit down and enjoy your meal,” she said, looking over her shoulder and grabbing another dish simultaneously. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” his father said, smiling from the table with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Thanks, and good morning,” Harry said, a small smile on his face as he reached over to the stack of toast on a platter nearby. After spreading some jam onto the slice he picked, he sighed. 

“Mother, do I have to go to school? It’s my birthday! Can I stay at home? Please? I’ll even help with the cleaning!” he asked, knowing well enough that it was a lost cause. The reason why Harry wanted to stay home was so that he would be able to help out with the Samhain festivity preparations. He also might have a math test he wanted to avoid. 

“Now Harry, none of that,” Alicia chided, “You’re going to school and that’s final. You have a test today, remember? Besides, the surprise we have planned is only for boys who go to school, isn’t that right, William dear?” she finished, rather sternly, before coming in from the kitchen and depositing scrambled eggs onto Harry’s plate.

“Whatever you say, honey,” William mumbled. 

Harry muttered something unsightly about teachers and tests, before filling the rest of his plate with food. “But Mum, the school’s so boring, and I don’t learn anything new…”

“Don’t speak while chewing, Harry,” his father said, in between sips of coffee. 

William shuffled today’s edition of the Daily Prophet calmly, and if he noticed the half-glare-half-plead that his son sent him, he didn’t show it. 

With a huff, Harry returned to his meal, and cleared his plate of eggs, toast and sausages in record time, eager to get the day over with. 

After leaving his plate in the sink, he fetched his backpack from his room and returned to the kitchen. As he was saying goodbye to his mother and father, a familiar prickling sensation grew in his forehead. He touched it instinctively, before quickly putting his hand down, hoping that his parents wouldn’t get worried again. But it was all for nought, as his mother saw the action. 

“Harry?” Alicia asked tentatively, “Is it your scar?” 

Harry grimaced, nodding. “Yeah. I don’t know why it hurts though.” 

When she reached over to take a closer look at it, Harry shied away. 

“Don’t worry Mum, I’m fine,” he said, covering his scar with his hair, “really, it’s not a big deal.”

His mother bit her lip, a slight frown etched on her face. “Will, come in here and see this,” she said, “his scar is acting up again,” she added, pointedly. 

William entered the kitchen, Prophet still in hand. He walked slowly and had dark rings under his eyes which Harry hadn’t noticed before. “There’s only one thing we haven’t tried yet, Alicia, and I know how much you don’t like it,” he started, only to be shut down by the very woman he was talking to. 

“I don’t care if I don’t like it. We’re doing it. I won’t let him spend another month with that…” she caught herself, “..with  _ that _ thing in his head.”

After staring at his wife for a full minute, William looked towards his son and sighed. “Go to school, Harry. Your mother and I are going to have a nice, long talk about what to do about your… scar.” He gestured at Harry’s forehead.

With his head hanging low and his face burning in embarrassment, Harry nodded dutifully and walked towards the door, careful to not let either of his parents see his expression. 

‘I’ve gotten used to my scar already. It really isn’t a big deal, so I don’t know why they keep on arguing about it. I’m fine, but they keep fighting, and it's all my fault. They’re arguing in there because of me,’ Harry berated himself, ‘all because of me and my stupid, bloody scar. I **_hate_** it _,_ and I **hate** this **place**.’

Harry's vision blurred. Glass shattered somewhere behind him and though he knew he should have better control over his emotions, he couldn't help but scowl. He hated his scar, he hated how it made his parents fight, and he hated how it made him so emotional he couldn't even control his magic. But he didn’t turn around. He just kept on walking, away from the house, and down the street. After a couple of minutes, he began to calm down, though his mind didn’t stray far from his irritation. 

At first, when he was younger, his parents would whisk him all across the country to have very old men with long beards and white robes examine his forehead. He hated those trips. Every time they travelled, and the Healers’ tests returned inconclusively, Harry would hide his face in shame for wasting his parents time. He could always feel them staring at him in disappointment. 

‘It’s not my fault that this stupid scar is such a problem, right? I don’t even know how I got it,’ he thought. ‘But that hardly matters. I’ll just be sent off to another old batty fool again this month.’

At this point, his scar was almost a weekly topic between his parents, and Harry felt terrible about the stress it was causing them. He didn’t want them to fight. He just wanted a normal life. Today was supposed to be a good day, but it had already been ruined in Harry’s mind. He bit his lip to try and distract himself from his thoughts and furrowed his brow in concentration. 

_ ‘School _ . Think about my plain, boring, old school. Ah, bugger. I’m already late. I’ve got to get to class  _ now _ , otherwise, I’ll be marked and then they’ll contact Mum and then that’s just more on her plate, and...’

As Harry found his way to his classroom, he gave a half-hearted wave to some of the other students he recognized but sat down at his table when none of them returned the greeting. 

* * *

The first period began. Harry pulled out his notebook and started drawing Hogwarts. Or, at least, what he knew Hogwarts looked like from the descriptions and pictures in the books. Apparently, the castle was so heavily warded that it was deemed Unplottable, and was supposed to be one of the safest places in all of Britain because of its defences. 

But that wasn’t what interested Harry most about the castle. The best thing about Hogwarts was that it was a  _ school _ . A school of  _ witchcraft _ and  _ wizardry _ . And at 11 years of age, he would get to learn magic too. Even if he had to wait three ruddy years for it, he would get there eventually. A smile graced his face at that thought, wiping away the last of his terrible mood from earlier in the morning. 

Flipping a page in his notebook, Harry took to drawing the Hogwarts’ Quidditch Stadium, south of the castle. Harry couldn’t wait until school started for him to have access to the pitch. It was an official one, too. Full-length and everything. 

In fact, just last year, for his birthday, Harry had asked for a broomstick. His parents hadn’t complied, and when he asked why, they never gave a straightforward answer. He supposed it was because of the Stature of Secrecy, but that hadn’t seemed like the  _ real _ reason. 

He had, of course, nodded that he understood, and hadn’t brought up the request ever since. Voicing his thoughts would benefit no one, and only serve to upset his parents even further by making them feel terrible. Besides, it was just a ruddy broom. He didn’t really need one. 

His name was called, and he perked back to attention. It was a question about irregular verbs or something of the sort. He cleared his throat and answered it, then went back to doodling in his notebook, glad to have the teacher’s attention directed somewhere else.

As the class droned on, the teacher collected the notebooks to check the work they had done so far. She returned them a couple of minutes later and they were sent off to the second period. Harry found a small note on his doodled notebook, and a red frown right next to it, but he didn’t care.

A couple of periods later, during lunch, he sat down with a group of his classmates and listened to the chatter about some new video game he didn’t recognize, while he poked his Brussel sprouts and made a face at his plate.

Harry stared intently on the unnaturally bright colour of his veggies, trying to get his mind off the conversation his classmates were having about him. 

Harry would have loved to chat about the newest video games or argue about which local football team was the best, but he never found the voice to do so.

‘Can’t talk about things I don’t know anything about, now can I?’ Harry thought. 

It was bad enough that electronics always went haywire around magic, and so he could never get around to playing the newest titles.

This only served to alienate him further from his classmates. Harry would always try to integrate himself into conversations and friend groups, but the lack of similarities between him and the other children only made the attempts difficult, if not impossible. 

Even muggle football, which he had always been able to enjoy, wasn’t an option anymore. Harry wasn’t allowed to play during lunchtimes or after school because of  _ that  _ time. When his parents had found out that he had lost his temper during a match and made the ball—quite literally—explode, he wasn’t allowed near the pitch ever again, and they tried to steer him towards more passive activities. 

Harry didn’t blame them at all. He blamed the fact that he was stuck in this limbo, this in-between place where he couldn’t  _ learn _ any magic, but he also wasn’t allowed to  _ forget  _ it and live like a muggle either. He felt trapped between two worlds, and there was nothing he could do about it, and he despised the other kids for laughing and having fun when he was very clearly  _ not _ . 

This is why Harry didn’t bother to join in with the chatter. He just listened. His mother had explained that it was always better to know when to listen and not interrupt, then to run your mouth like a fool. So Harry took to listening as much as he could. He would listen to his mother rant about a tricky enchantment, or to his father who had been having trouble with a tricky customer. He would listen, and only speak what was necessary, when it was necessary. 

The teachers were convinced that he was a shy and reserved child, but that wasn’t true. Harry just knew when to shut up and  _ listen _ . He was very good at it, in fact. It was one of the few things he was actually proud of. 

The chatter around the table continued on, and Harry’s mood grew progressively worse as he was constantly reminded by references and jokes that he didn’t understand that his fate was to be forever ostracized. He was left sick at the thought, and lowered his head, trying not to throw up from the bitter taste of spite in his mouth. He covered his ears for good measure, but that only served to attract more stares and a couple of finger-pointing. Harry scowled at the staring students, refusing to lower his hands until they looked away. If he couldn't join in the conversation, at the very least he could not listen if he chose to.

* * *

Harry stepped through the front door, carefully wiping his feet on a mat to ensure he wouldn’t dirty the entire shop. His father was at the registry, speaking to a middle-aged woman in long brown casual robes. Harry chanced a look at the object that she had brought in—an old copper pot—and stood there idly for a while, listening to the avid conversation about warming Charms that his father seemed to be having with the customer. A quill and parchment were suspended in the air behind him, furiously copying down the entire conversation. 

They didn’t get many customers, Harry knew. It was usually only a wizard or witch a day, who came by in order to fix something. Usually, it was kitchenware that had a faulty enchantment, or a magical rug that needed cleaning. Harry was allowed to watch those, and so he did, soaking up every bit of magic that he could. Very rarely, though it did happen, William was given an object that held some sort of curse of dangerous enchantment. When that happened, his mother would take Harry out of the house for the entire day, and would only return late at night. 

It was definitely for the best that his father was very good with bewitchments and enchantments, even though he never finished a proper mastery in charms or runes. Harry still regarded him as a very capable wizard, and he was sure others did too. 

Harry took one last longing glance at the use of magic before steeling himself towards the back of the shop, and up the stairs, across the corridor, pausing only to let his mother know that he had arrived home, before walking towards his room and lying down on his bed, closing his eyes with a sigh and letting his features relax from the worried expression they had held the entire day.

After a full minute, he huffed and grabbed his backpack, rummaging for the math homework he needed to finish for tomorrow. It took him a while, but he finished the exercises and glanced at the old grandfather clock in his room. There was still a bit of time before dinner would be ready, so Harry curled up on his bed and started reading  _ Tales of Beedle the Bard  _ for the third time. 

He had just finished 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' by the time he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He sat up, waiting for the door to open, and sat there expectantly as his mother and father knocked, then came in. William cleared his throat. 

“Harry, we have something important we want to talk about with you. Do you know  _ why _ we never bought our own house-elf, or why you don't have a broom?” 

Harry shook his head. “Is it because of the muggles?” he ventured. 

“No, not at all,” his father said. “We just decided to cut back on...certain expenses that weren’t really necessary.”

“Is that why we never moved out of Tutshill?”

“Well, yes. The cost of living in Tutshill was much cheaper than in London, so it was for the best.”

Harry stared at them, his face an emotionless mask. All those years, he had been stuck here, miserable, bored, tormented, stuck between the muggle and the magical in some kind of sick back and forth, and for what?

“Why…? Was it worth it?” Harry gritted his teeth. 

“That’s why we wanted to talk to you,” his father said, visibly uncomfortable, “we’ve been cutting back on all these expenses for one big vacation. We’re going to be travelling the world, and leaving Tutshill for a very long time. I suspect around two years, at the minimum. We just wanted to know if you were fine with that,” he finished. 

It took Harry quite a while to process the thought of what had just come out of his father’s mouth. This was a joke, right?

“ _ Leaving... _ Tutshill?” he asked, his eyes wide and brow furrowed in disbelief. 

“I’m fairly certain that is what I said, yes,” his father remarked. 

Harry let his head fall against his pillow as he looked up at the ceiling of his room.  _ Finally _ , he would be  _ doing something  _ and  _ going somewhere _ , instead of being locked up in this soddy neighbourhood for another three years of torment. He couldn’t believe it. 

“I think you’ve broken him, Will,” his mother said, a soft smile on her face. 

Harry lifted himself abruptly from his bed and ran towards his mother, his eyes moist and shining. He hugged Alicia, then William, and looked up at them eagerly while bobbing his head and smiling brightly.

“I think that’s a yes,” Alicia laughed, while William smiled. 

In a rare burst of energy, Harry blurted out, “Where are we going first? Does this count as my birthday present? When are we leaving?” with his eyes darting between each parent. 

With that, his parents brought him into their room, and towards his father’s desk, where a large map of the world lay plastered on the wall above it. Six coloured pins were stuck onto the map, with one of them on Britain itself. 

“To answer your questions, in order,” his father began, ''Germany, no, and as soon as you’re ready.”

His father then pointed out the path they would take; Starting in Germany, then down to Egypt. They would spend time in Greece and France before heading to Brazil, then up to the United States of America, from where they would return to Britain. 

“Your father will be going to the Ministry now to fill out the documents for international Portkey travel,” his mother said, “and I still need to head down to your school and inform them that you won’t be attending anymore. You, however,” she added, pointedly, “should start packing, so we can leave as soon as possible.”

Harry’s eyes bulged with excitement, and he sprinted towards his room and started to pull things out of the closet. 

Alicia came in a minute later, with her old brown trunk from her Hogwarts days which had been bewitched with a feather-light charm and left it beside his bed. 

“Harry dear, I’ve written a list of everything you need to pack. It’s on your desk. Make sure to read it!” she called, walking out the room. 

Harry turned around and picked up the list, before going through it, adding a few items that he wanted to take. 

Harry then proceeded to pack his clothes, both magical and muggle. He also tucked his allowance, which had been stored in a small mokeskin pouch, neatly between his wizarding robes. Harry went through his books, selecting choices both for academics and leisure, long and short, muggle and magical. An addition of blank journals and a writing set was obvious. He finished packing with the inkpot, screwing it shut tightly before placing it between his robes and his cloak far away from his books and muggle clothes. This was because his wizard attire, sown by his mother, had been woven in tandem with several charms, including an anti-staining spell.

In addition to sewing clothes, his mother also helped around the shop with orders. In fact, just last week she had made a new pair of gloves for an older customer, complete with a basic warming charm woven into it. When Harry asked why the item wasn’t just bewitched after the making, his mother gave him a smile and explained that a quality wizarding clothier always weaved magic in equal proportion to the thread. It made for higher quality apparel, and the enchantments stood for longer. 

She had then complained that it was a dying art and that she was one of the very few wizards—she emphasized this point harshly—who still practised it. By definition, it was also the practice that separated bewitchment, which was a charm placed after the creation of the object, and enchantment, which occurred during the creation. Goblin smiths were notorious for the latter. 

Harry also suspected it was the main reason why all the clothes sold at the shop were very expensive, and why some of the customers came from all over the country to buy his mother’s work. The price of a good enchanted cloak could probably be attributed to the fact that most wizards do not even need more than two of these cloaks in their entire lives unless they decide to expand their wardrobe to have the privilege of options.

He closed the trunk, locked it and was almost out of his room before he remembered that he hadn’t packed any socks. Mentally kicking himself, he went back and pulled out several, and chucked them in the trunk before running down the stairs, his trunk in hand, carelessly banging the culmination of his mother’s childhood memories against the stairs of the house.

After receiving a scolding from his mother for the treatment of her old Hogwarts trunk, Harry sat down in the living room and reopened  _ Tales of Beedle the Bard _ . 

“Now, I want you to stay put, young man,” his mother warned him, “I’m going to pop right down to your primary school and have a chat with the principal. Your father shouldn’t take too long, either. If anyone rings, don’t answer.”

Harry nodded and focused on the book in his hand, flipping to the page he had left off at absentmindedly when a passage caught his eye. 

> _ And once again he congratulated himself upon the wisdom of his early choice. In due course, the warlock’s aged parents died. Their son did not mourn them; on the contrary, he considered himself blessed by their demise. Now he reigned alone in their castle. Having transferred his greatest treasure to the deepest dungeon, he gave himself over to a life of ease and plenty, his comfort the only aim of his many servants. The warlock was sure that he must be an object of immense envy to all who beheld his splendid and untroubled solitude. Fierce was his anger and chagrin, therefore, when he overheard two of his lackeys discussing their master one day. The first servant expressed pity for the warlock who, with all his wealth and power, was yet beloved by nobody. _

Harry frowned, for he too felt pity for the warlock. ‘It must be terrible to have no one love you...and why would you ever curse yourself in the first place? What a silly idea,’ he mused, before settling down and continuing to read the rest of the story.

Harry would only look up from his book after an hour had passed when he heard the door open. 

His mother walked in with a sly smile plastered on her face and looked positively vibrant as she sat down next to him on the couch. “Is your father home yet?” she asked, peering at his choice of reading material. 

Harry shook his head, and after a moment of silence, he added, “what about the school?”

“Oh, they didn’t make a fuss about it. It was as easy as flicking my wand.”

Harry wasn’t aware that Principal Tucker had been Confounded to accept that the Portwoods were moving due to Williams job offer and that they had already given in all the necessary paperwork. 

But what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. 

Alicia got up and walked towards the kitchen, where she procured several packets of custard cream biscuits, and then promptly packed them in her trunk. 

“It’s for tea,” she said, after seeing Harry’s questioning look, “so don’t even think about it, young man.”

Half-an-hour passed before the fire roared green, and William walked through. As he dusted off his shoulders, which had been caked with ash, Alicia sent Harry to grab his father’s suitcase so they could be on their way. 

When Harry came back down, his father was in the process of setting up more protective wards against thieves and burglars.

After Alicia went through the Floo, it was Harry’s turn. He grabbed a fistful of Floo powder from the polished bronze bowl nearby and stepped into the fireplace, shouting “Ministry Atrium” before throwing the powder down and being whisked away by the Floo. 

Harry walked out of one of the Atrium’s fireplaces towards his mother, who stood in the middle of the room waving at him. As they were waiting for his father, Harry looked around the large hall, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open in amazement. It was his first time in the Ministry.

The ceiling was a peacock blue with golden symbols moving all over it; the floor polished dark wood. Harry’s gaze lingered on the golden symbols, and his eyes seemed to glaze over the longer he stared. Halfway into the Atrium was the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The fountain featured golden statues of a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf, all which spouted water from various locales into the pool of water below. Harry looked intensely at the expressions on the statues of the three creatures. It seemed  _ wrong _ . Almost like they were supposed to be  _ beneath _ wizards, which wasn’t true at all. His frown deepened and his brow furrowed the more he thought about it. His eyes then landed on a large banner hung up high in the hall, depicting the current minister, Millicent Bagnold.

Harry frowned at the banner. ‘Not very sociable, then,’ he thought. She seemed too strict to be the face of wizarding Britain. It looked like someone had squeezed too much lemon in her tea.

Just then, Harry was turned around by Alicia to see his father Floo in, who joined them in walking towards the security desk. 

The young man manning the desk, after weighing Alicia and William’s wands, gestured towards the lifts, with a careless “sixth floor”. As the Portwoods crammed into one of the only available lifts, Harry stared at the collection of small purple aeroplanes flying above his head. Noticing his interest, a portly looking woman in blue spoke up. 

“Funny little things, aren't they?” she smiled, “we used to employ owls to carry messages between departments, but that quickly became a pain to clean up after. Now we use these purple pieces of parchment that turn into planes. Although sometimes an odd one gets cranky and pokes ya in the eye while yer walking. Neat little things, though,” she explained.

As the woman finished talking, the lift came to a halt, and the doors opened with a soft voice notifying that they had arrived on the sixth floor:  _ Department of Magical Transportation.  _

He waited with his mother by one of the empty seats outside the Portkey Office. A good half-hour later and his father came out of the door, holding a small empty can of beans. They had gotten an authorization to travel internationally, and the Portkey was set to leave in an hour. 

“Is that the Portkey?” Harry asked, leaning forward and poking the can. As his father nodded, Harry positively vibrated once more with joy at the thought of leaving Britain. He was so close to freedom from the clutches of plain, boring, old Magical Tutshill. 

‘I’ll never be bored again,’ Harry promised himself. 

He knew he didn’t have to worry though, because literally anything was more exciting than Magical Tutshill. Plain boring old Tutshill. The closest thing they got to true excitement was whenever his father would secure a ticket to go see the Tutshill Tornados play.

In fact, Harry doubted it was even called Magical Tutshill because nothing truly  _ magical _ ever happened around there. There were no wizard duels, no dragons, no grand adventures like in the books. When he had voiced these very same thoughts to his mother last month, she had told him that it was better kept that way, and had warned him that if he ever got into trouble when at Hogwarts, he would have more to worry about than dragons and duels. 

Harry took the warning to heart.

It still didn’t change how he felt about Tutshill, but after today, all that would be left behind, and he could finally start his own grand adventure. 

With everything ready, the family took the lift down towards the food court, where they would sit down at one of the empty tables and order a light supper. Half-way through his meal, Harry asked his parents’ several questions that had been bothering him for a while. 

Putting down his desert, a sizable slice of treacle tart, he eyed his parents. 

“Why are we going to Germany?”

“I knew this would come up,” his father sighed, “well, son, this morning, we voiced your concern about your scar, no? We’ve been trying to do something about it for years, but most of the professionals we’ve visited in England don’t know what caused it, or why it still bothers you,” William paused. 

“ _ Most? _ ” Harry asked, with a tinge of trepidation. 

”Yes, most,” His father answered, rubbing his temples, ”we did have one older gentleman, Mr Whiltenshire—you remember him, don’t you?” 

Harry shrugged, and William continued, “It doesn’t matter. He did, however, explain to us that he knew of a few similar cases back when he used to work abroad, and he told us there were some noteworthy individuals who would be more than able of telling us what  _ happened  _ to you.” His father visibly winced at that last part.

“What do you mean?”

“We really shouldn’t talk about this here, William,” his mother pressed, “we can tell him another time.”

Then she turned to Harry. “Besides, we’d prefer if this didn’t reach the wrong people. If they knew about the cause of your scar, or why we didn’t know how it came about, then we might not be able to—” 

Alicia was cut off abruptly by the alarm that warned them of the Portkey departure. “Oh my, look at the time. If we don’t hurry up we’ll miss the Portkey. Come on Harry, we can continue this talk later.”

Harry sighed, licking his lips and grimacing. Even when he managed to escape from one problem, there was always  _ another _ there to make sure he didn’t have a good time. 

‘Bugger off,’ Harry thought. He was going to Germany, and he was  _ not  _ going to let his scar ruin his chances of living an eventful life. 

They stood and gathered their bags, before walking out of the food hall and back towards the Portkey departure area, where a middle-aged Ministry employee asked for their authorization papers. 

Harry muttered a ‘thank you’ after being cleared, and the Portwoods walked towards Room 6, one of the many Ministry-authorized cubicles for Portkey usage.

With ten seconds to spare, the Portwoods all placed a hand onto the can, and another on their luggage. After a short wait, the world disappeared in a swirl of colour, before straightening itself out as they popped into the foyer of the German Department of Magical Transportation in Berlin, Germany. 

Harry felt a wave of nausea hit him, and he swayed for a bit before his mother caught his shoulders. After a couple of minutes, he could move his head without feeling like throwing up, and so he was led out of the small area and down a carpeted aisle towards a row of small brown desks in cubicles that housed bored-looking Ministry employees. 

“Returning, Visiting, or Permanent?”

As his father sorted out the details of their stay in Germany, Harry placed his trunk on a small table where several instruments hummed and blinked. After being instructed to remove it, he stepped away from the table and waited silently, observing the room he was in for a couple of minutes. 

Harry felt something tugging on his arm, and he looked around sharply.

“Let’s go, Harry. We’re all done here,” his mother said, before thanking the witch that had attended them and walked off. Harry followed her and his father, who were both walking quicker than was really needed. 

“This way to the public Floo access, dear,” his father said, pulling out a letter from his pocket and scanning it, before nodding curtly. 

They arrived at one of the fireplaces, and William put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to get his attention. “Harry,” he stated, “when you step into the fireplace, I want you to—carefully—say  _ Spudmore Cottage _ , understand?”

Harry nodded fervently, to which his mother laughed. “We’re going to be staying with a friend of your father’s, Randolph Spudmore. When you get there, tell him that Alicia and William are on their way. We should be right behind you,” his mother reassured him, “so don’t forget to be polite. Now, take this Sickle and slot it in there to get a handful of Floo powder.”

With a fistful of the ashy green powder, Harry stepped into the large, black tiled fireplace and shouted the address, opening his palm and letting the powder fall to the floor. As he watched it descend, a flash of worry graced his face. Had he spoken the right address? Where was he going? Who was Randolph Spudmore? How did he know his father? Harry took in a deep breath before the powder came in contact with the ashes on the floor, and he watched silently as the green flames rose up with a burst, enveloping him instantly.

Within a second, he was gone.


	3. Like A Proper Wizard

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER THREE: LIKE A PROPER WIZARD**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

The breeze whistled through the forest, bringing forth an expansive shimmering of verdure. This, along with the wards that domed around the forest clearing, succeeded in blocking the small cottage from unwanted visitors, intentional or not. 

Spudmore Cottage was the residence of one Randolph Spudmore, the last direct heir to the Spudmore name. His father, Abel, had passed away a couple of years back, and so he was left with all of his father’s assets, which included his small, secluded home. 

The entire clearing was located right in the middle of the Black Forest, though it was closer to Freiburg than Stuttgart. Not much else surrounded the cottage, or the industrial shed beside it, or the small dirt pathway that connected both. Save for the insurmountable wall of evergreens, nothing ever bothered them.

All of this seclusion, peace and relative serenity would soon be disrupted by the arrival of one young Harry Portwood. 

Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, quickly bringing his hands to his face to wipe away the soot that had fallen on him during his trip with the Floo. He blinked rapidly and coughed once to get rid of the dust he must have inhaled. 

“Are you quite alright, lad?”

Harry looked up to see a scruffy man dressed in dull brown robes leaning over him, a pair of warm brown eyes tinted with concern. He looked worn down, though not by age.

He stared at the man carefully before nodding and repeating what his father had told him to say. 

“Are you Mr Randolph Spudmore? Mum and Dad - that is, Alicia and William are on—”

Before he could finish the sentence, the fire roared, and Alicia walked out, seemingly unperturbed by the soot on her shoulder. 

“Alicia dear! It’s been far too long!” Randolph grinned, bending down and softly kissing her hand.

“Indeed it has, Randolph,” Alicia smiled. 

“I say, I must apologise for the dirty fireplace. When Will warned me to expect you soon, I didn’t think he meant today!” Randolph said.

“Yes, well, we managed to get everything done rather quickly. I hope it’s not too much of a bother...”

Randolph waved her concern away just as the green flames rose once more, and William stepped out. 

“Will! Look at you! I trust you’ve been well? I’d heard you finally settled down, but I didn’t think it possible at first. Tell me everything!”

William smiled at his oldest friend. “I’ve been well, Randolph. You already know Alicia, of course.” Randolph nodded.

William set his trunk down on the ground and wrapped his arm around Harry. “And this is our son, Harry.”

Randolph’s grin widened, and he clapped William on the shoulder hard, releasing a bellowing laugh. “William, you sly old dog!”

Harry looked on at the entire interaction with interest, and a small smile reached his lips as the conversation continued. Randolph’s mood was rubbing off on him, and any questions he might have had slipped from his mind. 

“Ah, where are my manners? Cookie!” Randolph called.

A small house-elf  _ popped _ right beside Randolph. Harry had few interactions with house-elves, and so looked at her with wide eyes. She was quite frail and had large eyes and a curved nose - almost like how he imagined a goblin would look, actually. Were they somehow related? Would it be rude to ask?

“Cookie, take these trunks up to the rooms.  _ This  _ one goes into the room with the single bed,” Randolph said, gesturing towards Harry’s trunk.

“Yes, Master Randolph.” The brown-eyed elf bowed, before vanishing with the luggage. 

“Randolph dear, would you mind showing me the bathroom? I need to freshen up,” Alicia asked. 

At that, Randolph ushered the male Portwoods towards the seats in the living room, before pointing Alicia towards the bathroom. Harry sat down on the other single armchair and looked around the room in slight awe. Paintings lined the walls, disrupted only by a smattering of shelves that had a weird assortment of objects and...a Goblin’s head? Harry shivered and looked away from the decrepit looking thing, focusing instead on the many glass displays that were set up. One, in particular, held a broomstick, and his gaze gravitated towards that, pulling a thought to the forefront of his mind. Would he be able to fly now? It didn’t look like muggles lived nearby, anyways. Not if Randolph had a broomstick lying around. 

Said host clapped his hands twice and Cookie the house-elf returned, levitating the teapot to fill two empty cups. 

“It’s green tea, I’m afraid. I finished with the mint a long time ago,” Randolph explained, as he handed one cup to each of his male guests. “I do need to order more from Britain, though. The tea here just isn’t the same.”

William nodded sagely, while Harry sipped his tea. It was bittersweet but warm, and he welcomed the familiar taste. Behind them, the fire lit up, but this time in a bright orange flame, heating up the entire room quite nicely. 

His father and Spudmore talked amiably, and Harry was lost in his surroundings once more, decidedly tuning out the conversation, and focusing instead on the crackling of the fire as he took in the room in greater detail.

The wallpaper was pale cream and sported many old picture frames and shelves. Harry found himself standing up from his seat and venturing around the living room, his footsteps muffled by the heavily carpeted dark pine floor. He stood in front of a black and white photograph of a man and a boy, both carrying broomsticks. The man seemed kindly enough, though it looked as if old age was catching up to him, as the wrinkles in his eyes denounced. The younger person in the photo seemed to be around Harry’s own age. Harry inspected it further and found the small written note at the bottom of the picture. 

> _ “Abel Spudmore and his son Randolph Spudmore, 1984.” _

“Ah, Harry!” Randolph called. “I see you found the family photograph.”

Harry was drawn away from picture gazing and turned around, looking at his host. “Is this your father?”

“Yes, lad. He was my father.”

Harry took note of the wording and his shoulders straightened, while he looked down at the floor. “Oh. You have my condolences,” he said, remembering the few lessons he had from his mother on basic manners. 

“Thank you, but you needn’t worry lad. He passed away a long time ago. While I was still at Hogwarts, in fact. They told me he went during his sleep, and that it was painless.” Randolph nodded gently towards the broomstick on the opposite wall. “He was a broomstick manufacturer, though not very successful. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of Ellerby and Spudmore?” Harry shook his head, returning to his seat. “Wouldn’t blame you, either. He had the right idea, my father. Co-founded the company, and took care of manufacturing. The shed out back used to be where they made all the brooms. They weren’t bad, either, but I suppose the other brooms at the time were just better. It was a shame, really. His only dream was to see his broomsticks loved by the world. Had a right passion for Quidditch, he did.” Randolph’s eyes grew misty, and he wiped them quickly, before putting on a determined smile, just as Alicia returned from the bathroom. 

“Well, there’s no need to get worked up by the past, am I right, Will? Come on, I’ll show you all the shed. Follow me,” he said, standing up.

“I’ll be upstairs, then,” Alicia said, nodding. “You know I don’t agree with Quidditch, or flying, for that matter,” she explained, much to Harry’s horror. “You three have fun.”

Randolph led the two other Portwoods through the cosy living room, past the kitchen, and out the front door. 

As Harry walked towards the industrial shed, he took the time to enjoy the surrounding wilderness. The thick trees, shimmering foliage, and utter silence brilliantly opposed the boring muggle houses, paved streets, and pollution that plagued Tutshill. It all seemed so  _ free _ ,  _ wild _ , and  _ magical _ , and he was happy to have escaped the  _ orderly muggle confinement  _ that he had to adapt to for years. His very being seemed to hum in agreement with his thoughts. 

The quiet and serenity surrounding him seeped into his mind, and slowly let the realization that he had finally and truly escaped Tutshill light a soft smile on his face. He decided to take his time with the walk, choosing to observe and take in every bit of new scenery that he could. It wouldn’t do to ignore what he had been wishing for all his life, now would it? There was nothing remotely muggle about his surroundings, and Harry very much wanted to keep it that way. 

William and Randolph, however, started discussing the current project that the latter was working on.

“You know, William…” began Randolph. “I’ve been testing some of the old broomstick models that were left in the shed after my father passed away, and although some of them still work, I’ve encountered some problems concerning the charmwork on the broomstick handles. I was hoping you could take a look at them?” Randolph suggested, glancing at his old friend. “It’s been hard these past few years. After my father passed away, he left the company in my hands, and I haven’t been able to make much of it. I had to settle all the debts he owed, so I haven’t really been able to do much beyond charms theory and testing, but I can’t go back to being an Auror. It just wouldn’t feel right.”

“Ah, yes. I know you wanted to become an Auror, but you gave up on that to return here. Why?”

Rudolph shrugged. “It was better than anything I had planned at the time, and I still do want to try and follow in his footsteps. Make him proud, you know.”   


They reached the doors to the large steel building that had once been used as the manufacturing centre by Abel for Ellerby and Spudmore

The entire structure had large, arching metal beams supporting the frame of the building, and the outside of the shed had been painted a very light red, almost orange, while the inside was a very dim gold. Harry reached up in an attempt to touch the bold golden words that could be seen above the main entrance - Ellerby & Spudmore - which had now faded quite a bit.

Harry swept past the worn down door frame, eager to explore any that had something remotely to do with Quidditch. The shed was larger inside than outside, Harry noted. Just like William’s suitcase, it looked like, though this expansion charm seemed to be much larger. On the outside, it was a medium-sized shed, about 90 by 300 feet. It more than doubled when you walked in, though. This was mostly due to the necessity for a testing area, complete with a short and diverse obstacle course. 

As William and Randolph hung back near the entrance, Harry took off, deciding to explore the inside of the building. He wandered off near the large crates at the far back of the shed and was content with poking his head around them, trying to find something of interest. He managed to find an open one, and the sight of bristles brought an elated feeling to his throat, and he reached forward, only to pull out what seemed to be the unattached bottom of a broomstick. Dejectedly, he placed it back with a sigh. It would’ve been nice to find a working broomstick. 

In addition to the large crates at the far back of the shed, to the left was an industry-standard workstation where books, tools, and spare broom parts could be seen littered around the table and on the floor. Harry ignored that section of the building, favouring instead to return and dive amongst collections of handles and thistles, looking for just one,  _ finished _ , broomstick. He would give just about anything for the chance to fly like Roderick Plumpton. It didn’t even matter if he was any good at it. He didn’t know why he loved the idea of flying, really. It wasn’t even the most complicated magic out there. Something about it made him feel hopeful, though. Like he could just escape, and fly away. Spurned on by his dreamful thoughts, he dove back amongst the plentitude of boxes, blocking out his father’s conversation a dozen crates away. 

On the other side of the shed, Randolph ushered William over to the workshop area and sat him down. He continued with his explanation of his various tests and results, all the while pointing towards a lone broomstick handle that lay on the table. Runes were etched about halfway through the entire wooden beam, and it glowed faintly. 

As night crept up upon them, a deal was struck. William had reviewed the plans for the new line of broomsticks Randolph was working on and had taken a liking to his business model. Unlike his father, however, Randolph wasn’t very keen on the manufacturing, and he admitted this. He certainly knew how to run a business, but he hadn’t scored top of the class, as William knew, on either Runes or Charms, and would be having a hard time creating a market-ready broom alone. 

It had taken over an hour of discussion, up to which the sun had already begun to disappear before William was convinced by Randolph’s proposal of partnership. Nothing official had been agreed on, of course. There would be time for that later, and William still needed to get his wife on board. 

But the notion that the Portwoods would invest a substantial amount of money—5,000 Galleons—into the revitalization and rebranding of Ellerby and Spudmore was still there.

In turn, the Portwoods would receive a marginal amount of the profits—only about 10%. There was also the unspoken agreement that they would be the first to receive the first market-ready version of the broom model, which had been dubbed the ‘Firebolt’. 

Harry, having gone through a third of the warehouse, decided that the search for a functioning broom was probably a lost cause, especially after he had gotten his hopes up by finding a fully intact one. He’d pulled it out and set it down, only to be severely depressed when it failed to react to his excited yell of “Up!”.

He now walked back towards the entryway, passing his father, who was still huddled over a large stack of papers together with Randolph, and out the door, tearing his eyes from the shining broomstick model that lay on the desk in front of the two adults.

Harry spent a brief moment outside before having his attention drawn to shouting from the cottage. 

“Harry dear, call your father, will you? We still need to get everything ready for the  _ ritual _ .”

At that single word, Harry’s mind burst into overdrive.  _ Ritual? When? Where? How?  _ Then his common sense caught up. Today was the 31st of October, and his parents had promised to allow him to have his first ritual. He wasn’t going to lose this chance for anything. Forget flying, this is what he wanted to do. 

With an excited yell, he raced back towards the shed and blurted out some garbled sentence. Apparently, the mess of words that included “Ritual”, “Prepare”, and “Now” was enough for the two men, and they began to pack everything up with promises of returning at a later date. 

Harry, instead of waiting, grinned widely at the surrounding forest when he sprinted out of the shed in a dash, up towards the cottage along the dirt road, feeling the air on his face. Between the prospect of flying and promises of a real  _ ritual _ , his young barely-eight-year-old mind pushed all thoughts of Tutshill and eternal suffering  _ out _ and replaced them with wonder and excitement.

* * *

Harry watched the bonfire light with glee. He had waited a long time for this and had no desire to see it go to waste. It was his first proper Samhain, and he intended to make the most of it. When he had mentioned this to Randolph, the wizard had laughed. 

“What? You’ve never?” Randolph chuckled. 

“No, sir. We don’t have much space in the backyard, you see.”

“None of that sir stuff, eh lad? Makes me feel old.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.

“It’s Randolph, or Uncle Randy if you’d like,” Randolph smiled.

“Yes, Uncle Randy.”

“Well, about Samhain? Don’t worry. Although this isn’t a  _ real _ Samhain, it’ll do,” he said, reaching over with the torch to light the driest looking portion of the large pile of wood that had been collected in the east of the clearing. “I expect you’ll have one of  _ those _ soon enough.”   


“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“Oh, nevermind. Now be a good lad and fetch me the bucket of blood?”

Harry nodded and sprinted around to the other side of the growing fire were the bucket of goat blood laid. He returned, huffing, for it was a quite large bucket of blood. Setting it down, he glanced back at the cottage. It had been quite some time since Alicia and William had gone back inside, but while Harry had managed to freshen up, change into his robes, and come outside to help with the preparations, they still haven't shown up. Harry's brow furrowed and he hesitated, wondering whether he should go back to check if something's gone wrong and that's why it was taking them so long.

“Oh, lad. Best not. You wouldn't want to go looking for them now, trust me," Harry gave a slight start and turned to look at Randolph. The man sent Harry a knowing look, but Harry didn’t understand. He didn’t question it though and sat down on the clearest patch of grass he could find.

“Why do we celebrate Samhain, Uncle?”

“Oh, that, lad. It is an old custom, I suppose. Nothing evil, like some mudbloods, might tell you,” Randolph nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “It’s believed to be the point in time when Magic is at one of its four Great Points. We, as wizardkind, celebrate it as the moment in time where we are closest to death. Some use it as a time to Diviniate their future, others as a time to honour the dead, and to mourn the passing of loved ones. A few partake in Rituals, though those are few and far between.”

Harry nodded, taking everything in. It all seemed so wonderful. As he watched the fire spread across the second bonfire, his mind wandered to what Randolph had said. 

“Mudbloods, Uncle?”

Randolph smiled, though it was a sad one. “Muggle-born, I suppose, is the correct term. Not that it matters. They enter our world and laugh at our traditions. It is why you will find plenty of people who do not appreciate them. Some outright hate them and accuse them of stealing magic. You will find those accusations to be utter rubbish…” the cloaked wizard rubbed his beard. “But others are very much real. Tell me, lad, what would you do if you moved to...oh, I don’t know...Greater Iberia?” Randolph cast a significant look at Harry, as though evaluating his next words. 

Harry caught this and paused, biting his lip. “Well...I’d be going with my parents, so school, right? Then I’d need to study, learn the language, learn the dos and don’ts.” Harry looked up at Randolph, who was beaming at him. “Right?

Randolph laughed. “That’s right, Harry. Now, tell me. Do the mudbloods do this? No, they don’t. Yes, they might receive their letter, and then hop on the express to Hogwarts, spend a couple of years studying Magic, but what about the other things? Most of them scoff at learning our customs. Our terms? Our laws? No, they find it all beneath them. They pale at the mention of blood and rituals and sacrifice, and they condemn us for anything they find too ‘barbaric’ or ‘outdated’. They come with their snide remarks and their superiority. How would that make you feel, Harry?” 

“I don’t know… It sounds pretty terrible. Are all muggle-borns like that?”

Randolph looked thoughtful. “No, I suppose not. It would be best to keep that in mind as well. There are some - Merlin bless their souls - that do try and become functioning members of society. But those are few and far between.” Randolph scowled and continued. “And it doesn’t help that we’ve got some of our own kind propagating that kind of thinking, either. Muggle-lovers and  _ Magic _ -traitors, the lot of them.”

Harry sat in silence, brooding, while Randolph continued. “I say  _ Magic _ -traitors instead of Blood-traitors because that is what they are. While you will find some stuck up twat that talks about blood purity, it has nothing to do with it.” There was a pause, and Randolph removed his wand from his hand, murmuring and waving it over the fire. 

“I daresay the bonfires are ready. Now, enough talking. Go to the kitchen, and grab the pearl white bowl on the sink. If you can, bring the black bowl too. Just don’t let the liver spill out!” Randolph called, as Harry dashed towards the kitchen. 

Retrieving the correct items, he saw his mother and father walk down the stairs, dressed in dark robes. 

Alicia smiled at him and cooed. “Look, William. Our little boy is all grown up! His first festival…” she rushed to smother him.

“Muuum! I’m carrying the liver!”

“Oh, sorry dear,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Here, we took your robes out of your trunk already. Go into the bathroom and get changed, now.” Alicia handed the ritual robes to her son. 

Harry set the bowls down and dashed into the bathroom to change his pale brown robes for the ritual ones his mother had sewn. He walked out a couple of seconds later and picked up the bowls once more. 

“I daresay, doesn’t he look handsome, Will?” She turned to her husband, who smiled at the sight of his son in dark green robes. 

“Like a proper wizard, I’ll say. Now come, let’s join Randolph.”

The Portwoods walked outside and towards Randolph, who stood patiently at the base of the flames, back turned, soaking up the heat. He gave Harry the instructions for the liver and the pearl white bowl. 

“Now, Harry,” he began. “I want you to walk between the two fires, slowly. Grab a liver in your wand-hand, and the knucklebone in your other. Once you have crossed the blood ring on the other side, you must throw them both behind your head, without looking.”

Harry nodded but asked a question nonetheless. “What are they for? The liver and the bones, I mean.”

“I told you about the meaning of Samhain, correct?” 

Harry nodded and watched the fires burn with intensity. 

“We aren’t going to be performing the  _ full _ customs, but this will suffice until you are older. The knucklebone is to represent the bones of your sacrifice. This is usually done with cattle bones, but a cock or goat can be used as well. It was the best I could do on such short notice. Most of the market has been sold out a week in advance.” Then he nodded towards the other bowl that Harry had been carrying. “The liver is used to symbolise a connection to your flesh and your current body. Traditionally, it used to be a heart, but that fell out of use years ago, even if it was better during the ritual. Lastly, you would use blood to surround the entire process and to signify your future and your legacy through your blood. We use goat blood here because there aren’t enough of us to collect blood for the entire circle.”

“Why don’t we just mix our own blood with the goats?”

“Because it is impure, Harry.” His mother gestured towards the blood on the ground that still appeared fresh. “The goat is a plain creature. It has no magic in its body,” she said simply, as though that explained everything. 

“You must remember, Harry, that magic is guided by intent. The intent, and nothing more. It is true that some magic will be called Dark, and others Light, but very few actually fill those criteria,” William said. 

Soaking everything up, Harry walked towards the edge of the blood-circle, placing the white bowl on his left and the dark bowl on his right. He grabbed one ingredient from each, and held them out in his palm, and took a quick glance back at his parents and Randolph, who nodded approvingly. Harry took a deep breath and stepped over the blood-line, walking slowly and deliberately.

The heat struck him blazingly, and to Harry’s disbelief, the fire seemed to stretch out to him. In a daze, he released his breath and took in a deep gulp of smoke. 

For a second, he expected to cough and stumble, but the grey ashes that flew down his throat didn’t burn, or clog his throat. Harry took in another breath, calmer now, as he reached the end of the blood-circle on the other side of the passageway between the bonfires. Reaching the end, he threw his hands back and stepped over the line, his knees shaking, and he heard the fire roar approvingly behind him, as though it was... pleased? But that didn’t seem right. 

Deflating, he stood there for a while before turning around and looking once-more towards the fire. His mother had already passed through, and his father soon followed suit. 

Once Randolph had crossed the blood-line as well, Harry relaxed. His first ritual, even if it wasn’t a proper one. He felt elated and smiled at his mother, a calm peace that he hadn’t felt in days settling over him. He heard his father talking and turned his head towards the noise. 

“Come on, Randolph. Tonight, we feast!”

A very giddy Harry was led back around the fire towards a pair of benches and a birch table that he was sure hadn’t been there before. He sat down and ate a full plate of cooked beef and fresh vegetables. He was also given a sip of butterbeer, while his parents and Randolph drank from a blood-red bottle.

The combination of fire fumes, a full stomach, and a small bit of alcohol made for a sleepy child, and he was soon dozing off, leaning on his mother with a content smile on his face.

Magic, he thought, was very wonderful indeed.

* * *

Harry blinked repeatedly at his mother and father. “Now…?” he croaked, his throat still somewhat smoky from inhaling the fire fumes. 

“Yes, Harry. We’d like to get it over with as early as possible,” his mother said.

Harry nodded and stepped into the smaller of two spare bedrooms. He hadn’t actually had any time to come up here since arriving earlier in the evening.

He took silent note of the room where he would be staying for the next few months. It was a cosy little thing, painted nearly the same colour as the rest of the house, and the dark floorboards and matching, straight, pale carpets. A lone window stretched at the back of the room, and during the day provided the only source of natural lighting in the otherwise somewhat dim room. 

“What time is it?” he asked. 

“Very late, young man. Made me wonder if we should have had this conversation tomorrow, but we did promise to answer any questions, and you’re awake enough,” his mother said. 

Harry rubbed his eyes one more time before looking back towards the room. A small desk with a writing station was placed directly under the small window so as to benefit from the little sunlight that poured through the trees year-round. Next to the desk was a simple single bed, with white sheets and woollen blankets. There was a small oak bookshelf that stood to the right, and it was taller than he was, though it didn’t reach the slanted ceiling. Illumination was currently provided by a multitude of candles that lay precariously around the room, and Harry guessed that the fire didn’t act as normal flames, otherwise the whole house would have been incensed in a bright hot fire by now. The silver candles basked everything in warm, orange tones, and Harry felt quite at home, even though his room back in Tutshill never seemed this inviting. Harry could only guess as to why. 

“Come on, now, sit down,” his father said. 

He walked over to his trunk, which had been placed down near the bedside table and sat down on his bed, turning around and waiting. They had already sat down, though he was sure the chairs hadn't been there before. 

“Cookie?” his father called. 

A second later, and that same large-eyed elf was back. She bowed and asked eagerly, “How may Cookie assist you, Mr Portwood?”

“Ah. I was wondering if you could bring us some tea,” William asked. Then, with a quick look at his wife, he added, quietly, “and bring some scones, too, if you would.”

After a quick minute, Harry was holding on to a warm cup of tea, and had a bitten scone in his hand, looking apprehensive as his eyebrows furrowed. 

“What’s this all about?” he asked. 

“Well, you said earlier that you had questions, and we reasoned that it would be better to answer them before anything else came up,” his father explained, taking a sip of his own tea. 

Harry relaxed. This wasn’t bad news, though he had no idea of what to ask. He had forgotten his earlier questions during the excitement of the day and hadn’t gotten any time to think up any new ones. So he just nodded quietly before asking the first thing that came to his mind.

“Why do I have a scar?”

His father sighed. “That, son, is a very long story. Or...” he amended, looking at his wife. “A very short one, depending on how you look at it.”

Harry sat up straighter and leaned forward. He would finally know the cause of his parent’s torment for the better part of the last eight years. He gripped his blanket and waited for his father to begin.

“It all started on the night of October 31st, 2001. It was the night of Samhain, and your mother and I were out celebrating on our own before the festivities began. The details of our date weren't important, at least, not until we were returning home.”

“Now, Harry, we want you to know that we love you more than anything else in the world. No matter what anyone else might say, I loved you and raised you like a mother. That, I think, is what counts. Or at least, I hope so.” His mother put her cup of tea down and stared directly at him. “When we were returning, Harry. We found a small child abandoned on the streets, all alone, in the cold. We found him wrapped in blankets of green, and with a terrible red scar on his forehead. We found you, Harry.” She continued looking at him, her eyes full of concern, hoping that she had addressed everything properly. 

After a long silence, Harry bit his lip and looked up at them with large, woeful, eyes. “I’m...adopted?”

Alicia looked distraught, though it seemed to be more because of the look her son sent her than any feeling she herself cooked up. “Yes, Harry. We adopted you,” she sat up and pulled him into a mother’s embrace, and he stiffened involuntarily. “But that doesn’t mean that we don’t love you any less. You are the most special thing in the world to us, Harry.” She looked at William, who stood up and wrapped both his wife and son in a hug, something that was most uncharacteristic of him, but nonetheless welcome.

“We both love you very much, Harry. If the world crumbles and everything you ever know is a lie, know that,” his father said. A depressing thought, and one that most would berate him for, but Harry knew that his father was like that. A bit awkward, socially. Much like himself, in fact. He looked up towards his mother, who was giving a right-frightful glare to William.

Harry couldn’t help himself, he laughed. He laughed and hugged his parents, before sitting down on his bed once more, except this time, he was joined by both Alicia and William. 

“Do you know who my  _ birth _ parents are?” Harry intoned. He knew who his  _ real  _ parents were, without a doubt. But he still wanted to know where he came from, and why he wasn’t a part of it any more. It seemed right, somehow. Even if they didn’t want anything to do with him. 

“No, we do not. We found you with nothing for identification on your person except for that green blanket. It’s how we knew your name. It had  _ Harry  _ written on it,” his mother explained, before pausing. “We also tried Gringotts for a blood test, and the magic held, which meant that you do have magical heritage, but whenever you had to imprint your magic upon the piece of parchment, it would always come across befuddled.” His father frowned at that. 

“The Goblins did not like that one bit,” his father remarked, speaking up. “They had told us to stop wasting their time, and that nothing could be done.” 

“We did manage to obtain Muggle documentation of your adoption. William used some of his more unsavoury contacts, but everything is legal, or as legal as it can be. In the Muggle world, at least, we are your parents. It is not as easy to claim adoption in the wizarding world. There are too many loops to fly through, and magic makes everything harder to fake. While your father is a very resourceful man, it was simply out of our reach.”

“So we settled for that, and we have lived in Magical Tutshill since then. Your father set up the shop, and life has been very much the same, until recently, of course.” His father smiled and looked around the warm room. 

Harry nodded. He understood, or at least, he thought that he did. But he did have one more burning question in his throat. “What about my scar?”

His father’s face became grim, and his mother actually scowled, something he had not seen on her face ever since that one day a young blonde witch had stumbled into the shop and asked William to be  _ attended  _ in a very sultry manner. While William had merely stammered, Alicia had very nearly hexed the woman. 

“We suspect it’s one of the reasons why we were never able to trace your magic signature, though nothing can be certain,” his father began. “But one thing is certain. It is infected with Dark Magic.”

Harry recoiled, and something inside him churned. “ _ Dark _ Magic?”

His father continued. “Yes, Harry, Dark Magic. I myself ran the identification on the night we found you, and it’s been confirmed by every healer we’ve taken you to. Your scar was caused by Dark Magic, and that very same affliction is what prevents it from fading.”

“We’re hoping that the healer we were recommended can do something about it. That’s why we scheduled an appointment with him early next week. If not…” William looked at his wife, concerned. “We will have to find someone else who can help us.”

Harry smiled slightly and burrowed himself into his parents once more. “Thanks, Mum, thanks, Dad. Thanks for taking care of me, even when you didn’t have to.”

Alicia and William shared a look before nodding. 

“Would you like to hear more about Hogwarts, Harry?” Alicia smiled. Hogwarts always seemed to brighten him up. When he nodded, she nudged William, who began telling the tale of how he had conceived a most dastardly prank on the third-year class of 1991. 

Harry listened intently and laughed when his father described the time he had poured a large bucket of ice-cold water onto a passing group of girls. 

“Yes, and I remember hexing you sore for that,” Alicia said, smacking her husband lightly on the arm. 

“Mmm. Look how that turned out for you. We started dating the next month.” William said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Harry stifled a laugh at his mother’s exclamation of ‘Men!’, only to receive a warning from her. 

“I better not hear of you doing the same thing, young man!” she said, pointing her finger at him. 

Harry nodded fervently and grinned. 

His father took the moment to speak up, his eyes dancing. “Yes, Harry. Don’t get caught. Trust me, your backside will never be the same. In fact, I do have trouble sitting down these da—”

“That’s. Not. The. Point!” Alicia said, smacking William once more. He only grinned in feigned innocence. Then she turned to her son. “You will  _ not  _ antagonize the young ladies in your class, young man. I raised you better than that.”

“Yes, mother,” he said, smiling at his father’s wink.

“Now, It’s already late. Time for bed. Hurry up, into the covers, there we go.”

After saying goodnight to his parents, Harry grinned at his ceiling, before sobering up when he remembered the rest of the talk he had just had. He would have to find out more about his scar, and whatever dark magic caused it, even if it didn’t bother him. He would do it for his parents, at least. That way they wouldn’t have to worry about him so much, he thought. 

He laid in bed for a couple of minutes more before finally drifting off to sleep. 

* * *

It had been over a week since the Portwoods had arrived in Germany, but the disturbing dreams that Harry had begun to suffer from since they arrived did not lessen in amount or intensity. 

“It can’t be a Mære,” his father reasoned. “The house should be warded against those.” Noticing the dejected look his son gave, William grabbed his son’s shoulder. “But we can try the ritual before you sleep if you like.”

Harry nodded, grateful. He’d come to talk to his father because of this. His mother, Magic bless her, would only make a huge fuss over it. His father was always more objective in things.

“Do we have any books on Mære, dad?”

“I’m afraid not. They usually aren’t mentioned much in books because they are so common. It’s usually something you just sleep off, but if you’re not sleeping at all, then it might be best to look for something. I’ll ask Randolph if he has any books on them.” 

Harry made to leave when his father spoke again. “Although, it might be an Alp instead. In any case, we can try the ritual my mother used to perform or see if I can find something about them here.”

Harry nodded, and left his parents room, heading downstairs and out into the clearing. He found a clear patch of grass and sat down, reflecting over the past few days. His parents had told them everything they knew about the scar: What it was, where it came from, and what they were planning on doing to deal with it.

Even if the information was little, to begin with, Harry was grateful for it. His scar had never  _ bothered  _ him before. It had just  _ been  _ there, a part of him. He had gotten used to it, even if he didn’t like it that much. Now, though, after being told by his parents that it was  _ cursed _ , he began to consciously make efforts to hide it. He hadn’t gone as far as to ask for a muggle cap, but his hair wasn’t proving to be enough. 

Harry’s stomach churned with thought. He, as a human, had been marred with an ugly red scar. He, as a wizard, had his magic defaced by another’s magic. He stood up abruptly and immediately regretted the action. He felt sick. He couldn’t sleep, and food was becoming more and more revolting. The thought of  _ feeding _ the Dark Magic inside him was revolting. With a groan, he returned to the grassy bed. He had spent the entire night thinking about it, and he was too tired to think anymore. With heavy eyelids, he fell asleep, hoping for some peace. 

Of course, he never got them. He spent his nights searching for the warmth, away from the cold hands of death. Fleeing, running away from the cold and into the warm. Some nights he found it, and all was well. 

Other nights he never got to the warmth, and the cold pain enveloped him. On those nights he woke up the entire house in a blood-curdling scream, still asleep but very much awake. Still facing the red-eyed green, the never-ending cold. He would wake up drenched in sweat, shaking, and his mother would be there, and his father behind her. 

They would hug him and whisper in soft voices, then he would go back to sleep and forget them the next morning. 

* * *

“Now, Harry, sit still. You must be still for this.”

Harry squirmed once more but sat in place after a second. His father handed him the silver spoon that had been coated with a small layer of salt and gestured for him to eat it. 

Harry gave a sour look towards the spoon before shoving it in his mouth and licking it clean. 

“Now place it under your pillow.” Harry did as he was told. “There we go.”

His right toe had been wrapped in bright green cloth, and his left toe a red one, as that was all he could think of when asked to relay his dreams. He wriggled them but otherwise did as his father asked and laid down, waiting. 

His father blew out the few candles that had been lit elsewhere, leaving him illuminated by only three candles, two at the feet of the bed, and another behind his head, all of which had been charmed so as to not drip any wax. 

Harry stared at his father and nodded, signalling he was ready to sleep. His father began the age-old chant to repel the Mære. He had also been told to use the spoon, just in case the cause of his terrible dreams was an Alp or some other lesser-known creature. He had not eaten anything since noon as instructed, save for the salt. This was meant to repulse any creature looking to peer into his mind through his throat. Harry thought it served to distract him from any bad dreams, as he was hungry enough and the little bit of salt made him thirsty. 

His father stood from the chair he had been sitting on and held his wand over him, muttering an incantation that Harry only barely managed to catch. 

“ _ Hic ego mendacem ad somnum, Non-mare nox et omnia michi prius nasse per aquas quae influunt in terra vices et numerum capitum, quod omnes stellae in firmamento.” _

With a nod, William left the room and closed the door, leaving Harry alone with nothing but his thoughts...and whatever creature decided to visit him in the middle of the night. If anything, he thought, tomorrow he would visit the Healer, and he would be able to help Harry if he continued having terrible dreams. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tentatively thought of anything but the horrible green and red light clashing, and instead focused on the memory of the Samhain Festival, and the flames that came with it.


	4. The Black Forest

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE BLACK FOREST**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**A thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader**

* * *

“Dear, Healer Schmidt is done. You can sit up now.” 

He opened his eyes, letting the bright light overhead flood into his face. He continued to lie down for another minute, trying to get used to the aching he felt all over his body. With a grimace, he pulled himself upright, gripping the white linen under him. 

“What did he give me?” He croaked out.

“A Dreamless Sleep, dear. Now, here, drink this.”

A small vial with a thick red liquid was placed into his hand, the cap already open. He took a sniff and downed it, making a face. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just a Pepper-up. Come now, your parents are in the waiting room.”

Harry allowed himself to be led out of the room by the medi-witch. He spotted the couch his parents were at, and walked over to them, sitting down beside his mother. 

“How was it?” his mother piped up, ruffling his hair.

“Alright, I guess,” he replied, sinking into the leather couch. “I’m sore, though. And my scar hurts, though not too bad.”

“Do you need anything?”

He shook his head, looking dazedly around the room, trying to remember the past few hours. They had arrived at the old house and been greeted by the kind lady, then he was sent into the white room where the old wizard had given him a frothy liquid - but after that - he drew blank. 

He sat there for a couple of minutes more, before retrieving a book he had brought along and settled down for the wait. Healer Schmidt would need time to process the results, after all. 

It turns out, it took very little time, and the ancient and grey Healer Schmidt wobbled out of his office door and towards them after a couple of minutes, supported by a brown cane. After sitting down, the old man let loose a large sigh and leaned forward before beginning. 

“I’m very sorry to inform you, Mr and Mrs Portwood, but I cannot treat your son.”

“And why is that, Healer Schmidt?” His mother said, with a sharp bite in her tone. 

“I - I cannot.” Schmidt looked to be at a loss of words. “I can’t treat the scar. I’m sorry.”

“Can you at least tell us  _ what _ caused it?” William pressed. 

After a quick privacy ward was cast, Schmidt looked fearfully at Harry’s own forehead and whispered, paler and paler by the minute. 

“It’s - a  _ Horcrux _ . Everything points towards that. There are other possibilities, but they are even more outlandish.”

“What’s a Horcrux, sir?” Harry enquired, not meeting the wizard’s gaze. The look in Healer Schmidt’s eyes was beginning to scare him. 

“Ancient, vile magic. Very illegal. Banned in every ICW-aligned country. Very few know of its existence, and even fewer know how to -  _ deal _ with them,” he whispered, glancing around with a paranoid look in his eye. “I’m afraid I am not one of the latter, and I cannot help you - I do not know how to. But please, listen. Do  _ not _ go looking for anything regarding them. It’s not worth it.”

William began to look around too, while Alicia stared directly at the old German Healer.

“And what? We should give up trying to rid our son of this - Horcrux?”

Schmidt grimaced. “No - I mean - Yes. Agh, I don’t know. But I can’t help you.” Then he gestured around them. “This conversation is already illegal enough. It’s Dark Magic, and I want nothing to do with your cursed child. Leave now, and don’t ever come back. Don’t contact me, either, or I’ll have to report you to the Ministry. Merlin knows what they'll do then,” he mused, standing up slowly.

Alarmed, William nodded once towards the Schmidt before nodding towards Alicia and Harry. The two rose from their seats and followed him towards the front door. Harry walked quickly, a confused look in his eyes. He grabbed his mother’s hand and noticed her flinch. Harry let go immediately, tears collecting in his eyes as he stared at the ground. By the time a teardrop had hit the ground, the Portwoods had already left. 

* * *

The house was completely silent, save for the subtle noises of the forest that surrounded the cottage, teeming with life, or the soft howling of the winter wind. It was late at night, and one would expect most of the household to be warmly wrapped in blankets and profoundly asleep, or in other stages of dormancy.

But Harry was having none of it. He awoke, startled by the howling of the wind. He had begun to sleep lighter and lighter, with noises that he usually brushed off now pulling him awake. He suspected it might be because of the nightmares he was having, and how his parents would wake him up every night when he started screaming. Now he could barely sleep through a harsh night without jolting awake a couple of times. In any case, Harry thought it was better, at least, then having to sleep through those nightmares without rest. 

For this reason, he left his room silently and walked down towards the kitchen, where he hoped to grab a cup of water before heading back upstairs to try and sleep again. As he stood at the bottom of the staircase, he noticed a soft light pouring into the living room from a crack in the door to the study. He hesitated, knowing that he was never allowed into the study. It was the only room that was off-limit. 

But, his young mind reasoned, they never said he couldn’t  _ look _ inside, so he did just that. Gazing through the small opening in the door, he noticed his mother sitting down on one of the armchairs and his father on the seat opposite. They were speaking, he could  _ see _ that much, but no sound reached them. They had used a silencing charm, then. With a huff, Harry laid flat against the floor by the side of the doorway, and stuck his finger inside the room, hoping that the ward parameters were large enough for this to work. 

His small finger curled around the doorframe and into the room, and suddenly, his ears filled with the noise of a hearth cackling, and his parents talking, though not quite loud enough for him to hear entire bits of the conversation. He laid there for a couple of minutes more until the chatter turned into something more interesting. 

“We don’t have a clue where to start looking, William!” He heard his mother exclaim. He couldn’t very well see him, but he suspected his father would be nodding absentmindedly away.

“I know, love. I know.” Harry barely heard his father mutter. “But somewhere is always better than nowhere. We could at least start as soon as we can. I’m of the mind that it’s connected to some beast.”

“You think a creature caused it?”

“It’s a scar, dear - It looks like something sharp caused it - may be from a claw or talon - though I have no clue what kind of beast carries a curse.”

“Then we’ll have to start looking, I suppose,” she said, her voice distant. “A library would be our best bet. Are there any good libraries around here?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ll just have to leave Harry here while we track something down. I’m not particularly keen on leaving him here, but I think he’s old enough,” his father rationalized.

“It’s fine, Will. Randolph will be here,” his mother said. 

“But he shouldn’t have to spend his day looking after our son, so we better make sure he has something worthwhile to do. You know how he gets when he’s bored. You were the same back then.”

Harry heard some laughter, but by then he had already decided to go back to bed. He had an idea of what they were talking about. It was the magic that the old healer Schmidt had talked about. Horcruxes. His father thought it was caused by a creature, then. So they were researching magical creatures, and they were doing it  _ for  _ him. 

Harry felt oddly warm inside, and he clambered back up the stairs to the landing before jumping into bed and back towards his nightmares, that didn’t seem to scare him as much anymore.

* * *

“Harry, wake up.” William proceeded to shake his son gently awake. 

“Mmmm. What-” Harry mumbled.

“Your mother and I are leaving.”

Harry rose quickly from his sprawled position and looked up at his father with bleary eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going to be gone for a while. Leaving early, and arriving late at night. Some days we won’t be returning to the cottage. I doubt you’ll be seeing much of us for the next few days, and I don’t want you waiting for us to return.”

“But why are you leaving?” he asked. 

“We…we have research to do.”

“On what?”

“Magical creatures. Your mother wanted to pursue something, so we’re taking a visit around the country, see if we can grab any information on… whatever she needs…” he trailed off.

“Does this have to do with my Horcrux?”

William drew in a sharp breath. “No, and don’t go calling it  _ your _ Horcrux. Don’t go talking about it, either. Especially when others might be listening, Harry. From now on, it’s your ‘scar’ or ‘sickness’, nothing else. And that’s final,” he added, noticing the bubbling protest his son was about to vocalise. “Do you have any other questions?”

“No, not really.”

“Good. I’m expecting you on your best behaviour, understand? No antagonizing Uncle Randolph, and remember - the study is off-limits.”

“Yes, father.”

William hummed. “Now, your mother and I are still looking for a proper Healer, one that will have no qualms about your scar.”

Harry shifted his seating position and looked down, mumbling something towards the floor.

“Why Germany? Why couldn’t we continue looking for a Healer in Britain? You said that there were people back home that could cure me, so why not?” Harry asked.

William sighed. “Your mother refuses to admit it, but Britain is the worst option. We were running out of private Healers we could trust, and the rest did not - or could not, work on you without drawing too much attention to your situation. Our family would be put under scrutiny, and although the muggle adoption papers  _ will _ hold in court, we don’t have the magical counterpart. Besides, whoever cast you out might want you back after all these years, if they knew you still lived. I believe they noticed the curse you carried, and cast you out thinking that you wouldn’t live much longer or that the curse might’ve ‘spread’ - though we can clearly see that’s not the case.”

“That’s horrible. You wouldn’t send me back, right?”

“It’s not really up to us, son. We do have legal guardianship currently, but if your birth parents truly want you back, there might not be much we can do about it. Your mother would probably argue that whoever cast you out in the first place does not deserve to have you back, and I would agree completely, but our family isn’t old, or particularly wealthy. We don’t have much support in the Ministry, and the little we do isn’t transferable to a case like this. I suppose, if you’d like, we could always ask the Ministry for help, and you could be reunited with your birth family if they are still around.”

Harry, who had been listening to this explanation, was drawn out of his thoughts with a snap. “No - I don’t want to go back to them. They didn’t love me, anyways. They kicked me out, right?”

“That is what we believe, but it might not be the case, son. But you do have a right to know who your family is. We tried Gringotts soon after finding you because they keep all matters private for a bit of gold, but the blood test failed. We don’t know why.”

Harry nodded, idly twiddling his thumbs.

“As for the healing, for the same reason, I think. We’d be forced to answer questions about your scar that we can’t really answer, and then you’d be taken away from us, which would escalate into a political shitstorm—don’t repeat those words in front of your mother, mind you.”

William leaned back against the wall, his eyes resting on Harry’s forehead.

“Besides, if Healer Schmidt was right, and I’m starting to think he is, then it would have been no good finding someone proper who would be able to cure you in Britain. We’d probably be arrested on the spot, and you’d be taken away from us. At least abroad, it’s easier to find someone willing to go under the radar. That was the idea, at least. ” William finished his reasoning with a grim expression, and he held Harry tighter than before. Harry scrunched up his features, resorting to burrowing himself further into his father’s hug.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be gone for long, son. Say, I have an idea. Every morning, we’ll leave a note for you at your bedside table, and in turn, every night before going to bed, you can leave a note on our bed, and we’ll read it. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that.”

“Perfect, then it’s settled. Go back to bed, Harry. It’s seven in the morning, and terribly cold, at that.”

Harry nodded and did just that, his head drifting back towards his inviting pillow, and closing his eyes before his father had even left the room.

* * *

Harry was taking a walk through the forest surrounding the clearing, glancing back occasionally at the new manufacturing location of the Firebolt Broom Company. The old industrial shed had been renovated by Randolph during the past few weeks, and he had already begun proper testing for his new line of broomsticks.

So far, most of the charms Randolph tried to implement had worked, and fantastically at that. Though Harry only knew this through a second-hand account - he hadn’t been allowed to ride the prototypes. The only charm Randolph was having trouble developing was a variant of the Hover Charm, which had been named the Anti-Gravity Suspension Charm. It was a bit of a mouthful, but apparently was the one that would truly distinguish the Firebolt from the other brooms in the market.

In addition, Randolph had taken to perfecting the runic arrays on the broom at night, while testing the progress of the ‘anti-gravity’ feature during the day. Harry would take to spending the day outside, especially around the early afternoon, which was when Randolph was most likely to fly.

In the meanwhile, William and Alicia had continued on with their escapades, which had increased to a bi-weekly occurrence, becoming more and more frequent as time droned on, and the couple became more frantic.

Harry had spent the time, not in Randolph's company, looking for anything to help his parents. While his mother and father had been looking for information throughout Germany, he had spent the time absorbing everything he could from the books he could find on magical creatures. The only one he had been able to understand so far was  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _ by Newt Scamander, and so he dedicated his time to finding a mention of Horcruxes in his copy of the book and would spend hours pouring over the book and transcribing everything into his own leather-bound journals he had brought with him.

After a couple of minutes of trudging through the leafy verdure of the Black Forest, he spotted his father leaving the cottage and walking towards the industrial shed.

His father had been more and more involved in the Company as of late, as he had begun working on the actual manufacturing of the broom, and constantly stayed up late at night with Randolph discussing possible modifications, theoretical applications and complex arithmetic formulae that made Harry’s brain spin when he tried to listen in.

Harry supposed that it was only fair that his father helped Randolph since they had been staying at the cottage rent-free. It also helped that the broomstick project kept William busy and distracted from worrying about Harry’s scar.

It also reassured Harry profoundly that his mother had not raised any concerns about her husband’s involvement in the manufacturing either, so she must have sat down and discussed it thoroughly with his father. She must have thought it a worthwhile business investment, or his father risked being smacked over the head and called ‘a complete and utter dimwit.’

Besides, according to Randolph, it would have taken a few years - even with enough capital - to produce a viable model that could compete with the current market. Not only was this due to the entire process of the extensive charm and rune work, Randolph had explained, but also due to the deal he was trying to set up with the goblins. He wanted to make the broom holsters out of goblin steel, which would prove to be much more reliable and stronger to work with than regular cast iron. The goblins, obviously, weren’t keen on working for a wizard, and much less for the making of their brooms. Randolph, however, was convinced that it was only a matter of time before they came around.

Harry continued walking with a thoughtful expression on his face. He carried three books in his arms, and a quill was set on his ear. Having donned his pale robes, he looked remarkably like a student as he wandered through the forest, occasionally opening the smallest of his books to jot something down, before closing it again.

Besides the small black journal in which he wrote in, Harry also had brought  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _ and  _ A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _ to his retreat. He was walking through the Black Forest in an attempt to find something interesting, or at least something worth writing about.

After Randolph had told Harry that there were supposed to be plenty of magical fauna and flora around, Harry had packed a bag and set off towards the Black Forest. While the notion of anything magical interested Harry, he was hoping to find a Bowtruckle, as it was probably the safest out of the creatures in the Black Forest, and the easiest to subdue. He was also looking out for any magical plants, but those weren’t as high up on his list of interest as the Bowtruckle. After a few minutes, he leafed through his copy of  _ Fantastic Beasts _ until he found the entry on the Bowtruckle, and began to read it avidly.

> **Bowtruckle  
> ** M.O.M. Classification **: XX  
> ** _ The Bowtruckle is a tree-guardian creature found mainly in the west of England, southern Germany, and certain Scandinavian forests. It is immensely difficult to spot, being small (maximum eight inches in height) and apparently made of bark and twigs with two small brown eyes. The Bowtruckle, which eats insects, is a peaceable and intensely shy creature but if the tree in which it lives is threatened, it has been known to leap down upon the woodcutter or tree-surgeon attempting to harm its home and gouge at their eyes with its long, sharp fingers. An offering of woodlice will placate the Bowtruckle long enough to let a witch or wizard remove wand-wood from its tree. The Bowtruckle have their own highly effective means of camouflage and no intervention by the Ministry of Magic has ever been necessary on their behalf. _

Harry had read all about the creatures of Germany a couple of days before and had spent a long time collecting woodlice from the nearby trees in case he found one. This is why he grasped his three books in one arm and held the bucket in the other. He mostly just wanted to observe a Bowtruckle - that way he could see if his own suspicions matched the behaviour of the creature itself. Then, he would write about his findings, and perhaps, if the Bowtruckle stood still long enough, make a small sketch of his own.

If he was lucky, he might even be led to a tree capable of giving wand-wood.  _ That _ would be something to write about. He paused for a bit, staring intently at a patch of grass, before shaking his head a bit, and moving on.

Harry trudged through the Black Forest, the long, thin collection of beech, elm, pine and oak woods thickening as he walked, giving a claustrophobic feeling of suffocation to the eyes. It was becoming harder to move for the forest, and he had to start paying better attention to his footing so he wouldn’t trip. Harry took several breaks as he walked, careful not to overwork himself, even as he walked at a leisurely pace.

After a while, he looked up struggling to see the sun. It wasn’t dark out, per se, so he guessed that it must have still been early afternoon, as he had started walking at around 1 o’clock. He walked for what felt like hours, looking intently for a Bowtruckle. He kept his eyes peeled to the extremities of the trees, looking for any sign of one.

After a long while of walking later, Harry decided to take a well-deserved break. If he continued on without a proper break - that was longer than a minute to catch his breath - he would end up catching his foot on a root, leading to a series of unfortunate events that would undoubtedly end up in a broken nose or arm.

Thus, he picked a reasonably soft-looking tree, if such a thing even existed, and propped himself up against it, carefully placing his books and quill in such a matter so that they wouldn’t be damaged if it suddenly started to rain while he took a short nap. One could never be sure if the foliage above him would manage to block rainfall with the same determination as it blocked the rays of sunlight. His mind straying into thoughts of sleep, he closed his eyes.

* * *

Harry awoke from his nap quite a bit later, if the change in the shade of darkness surrounding the forest was any indication. There was, however, a change in the air itself, the issue of getting back to Spudmore Cottage became a more pressing concern than it had been before his stop. The Black Forest suddenly seemed to be more . . .  _ vicious. _

He stood up and turned around in place, trying to find a sign of the path he had taken or even the distant form of the large industrial shed, but the dense canopy proved too thick to see through. Harry began to panic. He was lost. He turned back around and tried to find his possessions as the reality hit him, and his eyes began to water. He was lost.

_ ‘Oh Merlin, what am I going to do?’  _ He thought.

He spied his books quite a bit away from where he had been resting. Admittedly, that was strange, even for a supposedly magical forest. Did someone move his books? That didn’t seem to be the case, as they were still at the tree with the leaf bed under it. Had  _ he  _ been moved? Harry shivered before walking over to collect his belongings, pondering his options. He stood indecisively, holding his books close to his body, trying to find any clue of what direction to walk in.

Harry stood there for another minute, biting his lip in worry and narrowing his eyes at every single corner of his surroundings when he found something that made him snap to attention.

At the very edge of his vision stood a Bowtruckle, awkwardly trying to climb over a fallen log. The little creature succeeded and was now set on walking across the forest floor, oblivious to the human now watching it.

In a growing bout of curiosity, Harry decided to follow the Bowtruckle to see where it would lead him. Picking up the bucket of woodlice, he followed the small little creature as it wobbled and manoeuvred itself relatively clumsily through the forest. For a permanent resident, one would think the Bowtruckle would be more adept in navigating the forest.

As he followed it, Harry couldn’t help but notice something very odd about the Bowtruckle in question. With burning curiosity, he spent several seconds alternating between the pages of  _ Fantastic Beasts _ and trying not to lose sight of the creature in front of him. He read the same passage again and again, but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember where he had seen the bit of information that was eluding him.

> _ While the common Bowtruckle may resemble the common backyard stick, it is not unheard of for the variants that reside amongst truly magical trees to take on their likelihood: This helps them camouflage better with the flora of a more outgoing appearance that tends to surround more magical trees. Known examples include… _

Harry scrutinized the passageway, alternating between berating himself for not remembering important information and glaring at the unsuspecting Bowtruckle. Finally, in a sigh of resignation, he decided to pull out  _ 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi _ , even though he knew the mention of wand-trees wasn’t as expanded as he would have hoped. Flipping through the extensive pages, and keeping one eye on the Bowtruckle, Harry located the several pages dedicated to the more magical variants of certain wand-woods. He peered disdainfully at the passages, wishing that the information was more punctual and not in the form of small essays littered with verbose and words he did not understand.

Finally, with a mutter, he picked a tree that looked suspiciously similar to the Bowtruckle he was following. A Rowan. If the entry on Bowtruckles was to be trusted - and Harry was sure that it was - then the reason the creature had taken on a similar appearance to a tree - rather than a lush brown - was because of the magical variant serving as its home. Harry looked through the entry on Rowan trees and found nought but a small note at the bottom of the entire page that concerned his musings.

> _ There exists another, more magical variant of the Rowan. Little is known about this tree, and many leading professionals agree that it is close to becoming extinct. The Wiggentree is widely regarded as a magical rowan that will protect anyone touching its trunk from the attack of Dark creatures. But, this has never been tested due to the scarcity of the variant in question… _

He gave a small gleeful laugh as he found the information he had looked for. It seemed that the Bowtruckle in front of him resided at a Wiggentree, or at least very close to one. With newfound determination, he decided to continue following the Bowtruckle until he had found its destination, even though it seemed to be absurdly far from home.

Sometime later, Harry was beginning to regret his previous announcement of dedication. He felt terrible, hungry, and tired. Lamely, he continued on, exhausted, until something he saw made him stop in his tracks.

The Bowtruckle had also stopped, and he had almost run over the small little thing. Lifting his gaze from the forest floor, Harry looked up towards the sight that had attracted the attention of the Bowtruckle.

A small clearing that looked remarkably man-made stood in front of him. Having forgotten that the Bowtruckle was there at all, he stepped forward into the clearing, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he beheld the beauty of nature.

The glade was showered with red-brown leaves littering the ground like a soft bed. Mossy stones encompassed the small glade in a circle, ranging in colour and shape. Bowtruckles could be seen in the branches of the only tree in the clearing. It was nearly fifty feet tall, and its trunk positively hummed, inviting, radiating warmth and comfort.

Harry stumbled forward, now surrounded by what he was positively sure was something never intended to be found. It was just too beautiful. The sight felt like something created by magic and perfected by time. He sidled up to the trunk of the Wiggentree that lay in the clearing and touched it with his palm. A small shock of warmth was sent through his body, and he could  _ feel _ his magic reacting to it, accepting it.

Almost involuntarily, Harry decided that this would be as good as any place to sleep for the night. Having seemingly forgotten about the necessity to return home, he propped himself up against the base of the Wiggentree and relaxed as a flood of warmth covered his body **.**

Sighing contently, Harry brought forward his bucket of woodlice as an offering to the Bowtruckles. They didn’t seem to mind his presence so far, but just in case, he bowed towards the Bowtruckle who had brought him here in thanks, even if he did feel a little silly while doing so. He then placed the bucket a little while in front of him and waited for the Bowtruckle to join him, while he opened up all three of his books. He began taking notes on the tree behind him, studying and sketching its patterns on paper together with the actions of the Bowtruckles, noting that:

> _ In addition to an offering of woodlice, Bowtruckles seem to respond to good intentions and respect. If one approaches the residency of the Bowtruckle with caution, respect and good-intention, they should not show aggression. _

Harry added this to his journal, and whenever he finished with one observation, he would neatly remove the page from his leatherbound book and add it into his copy of  _ Fantastic Beasts _ , along with a reminder to make the additional note permanent in the book, before moving on to the next finding. 

After a while, he was satisfied, and so he grabbed all of his belongings, save for the bucket, which he left for the Bowtruckles, and pulled them close to him, curling up at the base of the tree. 

The last thing Harry’s mind focused on was the glint of polished stone under the glade-wide bed of leaves. He had swept the leaves up by accident when pulling his books closer to him, and it had revealed an etched name into the smooth marble beneath him, along with a faded coat of arms.

‘ _ Grimm. What a funny name. _ ’ he thought, before drifting off into a peaceful slumber. 


	5. A Tale Of Two Brothers

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER FIVE: A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Bagrat - you wonderful human being!**

* * *

_ The forest beckoned him into its heart. How could anyone resist such temptation? The enchanted ballad of its merriment drumming, entrancing. The forest, thousands of years old, still celebrated in fruitfulness and growth - it currently bathed in the plushness and grandeur of Winter’s wind. With a grey heart, he plunged time and time again into the arch of verdure that led him towards the clearing, away from the cool mists and the damp shadows, and into something unexpected. Evening’s light was slowly slinking away as it danced through the open sward, capturing his attention, and having its way with it. Because of this, the vaults of dark shadow had crept up behind him, hanging, waiting. _

_ Swirls of near tangible mist coiled around the rough body of the Wiggentree. They thrashed around it like a tub of gipsy oils, soft and silvery. Slivers of fog caressed the thick-encrusted bark. Adding it’s inherent magic to the damp of the forest, it glided with provocative intent. _

_ The young boy that had witnessed it all walked through the clearing, taking in all that the glade had to offer. He swirled through the mist, the magic in the air. He touched the tree and let the warmth flow through his body. He leaned his back against it and leaned his head against a mossy pillow. He closed his eyes, and let his stream of consciousness take ahold of him, drifting into infinity. _

* * *

Harry awoke, feeling dazed. His eyes fluttered open, and a smile grazed his lips. He couldn’t remember his dream, save for the subtle softness and silver slivers that still stalled his recollection of it. He gazed at his current surroundings, noticing that they were very much the same ones he had drifted off to. He sat there for a few minutes, taking in the scenery around him. He was entranced by the  _ magic _ in the air and in the ground and in the Wiggentree and in . . . him.

He jolted, startled. Shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts forcefully, he gathered up the little he had brought with him in one scoop, leaning his books comfortably against his body with his left arm. His right seemed strangely heavy, but he chalked it off to numbness and couldn’t be bothered to look at what caused the sensation of added weight.

Harry walked, a blank look on his face and glassy, unmoving eyes staring straight ahead.

It had seemed like only minutes had passed since he had woken up, but he knew, somewhere in his mind, that he had been walking away from the glade for hours.

It was only as he reached the front door of Spudmore Cottage that he took notice of . . . anything, really. Confused, he tried to open the door, but after one tentative stretch of his arm, he collapsed, his muscles screaming in protest. His knees buckled and he tumbled to the now very inviting ground, while his mind slipped into the subconscious.

* * *

Alicia and William, followed closely by Randolph, walked back towards the cottage, determined to find Harry. They had searched the entirety of the surrounding forest, west and east of the cottage, without rest. They had walked for hours, casting  _ Homenum Revelio _ as they paused intermittently through their search. It was only as the sun had begun to rise that they decided to return and try the other side of the forest.

Upon arriving at the large clearing home to the cottage and the shed, the would-be group of rescuers found Harry collapsed in the doorway of the house. Alicia raced over, her hair whipping behind her and a fierce expression on her face and picked him up, cradling her only child.

She began moving him over to the couch as her husband arrived, with Randolph right behind. Laying him down on the brown leather loveseat, she began to mutter simple diagnostic charms, while William whirred through the house, looking for the potions cabinet.

When the tests came back with positive results, Alicia let loose a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding.

“We should let him rest, Alicia.”

“But - ”

“I think that’s the right choice. I fear a  _ Rennervate _ would do more harm than good. Besides, there isn’t anything of pressing concern, correct?”

“No -”

“So then it’s settled. Come, let’s set him up in his bedroom.”

“And bring whatever he was carrying, too.”

“It’s just a branch and some books.”

“Just bring it.”

* * *

Hours later, an unsettled Harry would wake up for the second time that day in his room to find his mother waiting with a tray of potions and other assorted items.

He was forced to gulp down the collection of murky and sometimes bitter concoctions that his mother handed him before washing his mouth with water. He then remained seated upright as his mother gave him a sermon on proper safety and just how concerned she was.

“—and then we had to go all the way to Baden-Baden just to grab some Pepperup potions, and then there was this delay because they didn’t have any ready—” his mother ranted continuously before Harry finally interrupted her.

“I’m fine Mum, really,” he said, calmly.

His mother looked worried for a bit, her lip quivering, before she hugged him fiercely, berating him once more.

“And if you EVER think of doing something like that again, Merlin so help me—”

She let the threat hang in the air, a very real and protective fire in her eyes. Harry nodded glumly, trying his best to seem scared, before giving up and cracking a huge smile, hugging his mother back.

* * *

Harry grabbed the cup of tea that was being offered by Randolph with a polite ‘thank you’. He set the cup down and wrapped himself in his blanket, leaning into his mother, who was sitting beside him and rubbing his back.

He had gotten scolded for his actions, of course, but it was more out of worry than actual anger, he supposed since he hadn’t really broken any established rules with his escapade into the woods. He was made to promise, however, that he would never go beyond the perimeter of the wards alone again.

They then made him retell his entire journey, and how he had found the Bowtruckle. He showed them the sketches and observations he made, and his parents seemed genuinely proud as they congratulated him on finding what was possibly a new colony of Bowtruckles. He also told them about the tree he slept under, and the feeling of warmth he was given when touching its trunk. He tried telling them of the stone he slept on, and the mysterious name etched onto it, but for some reason, he felt compelled not to.

Then, his father told him to go upstairs while the adults talked. So he did, taking his work and striding into his room together with his cup of tea, feeling very enthused about the whole ordeal he had just gone through, even if he was a little tired.

A couple of minutes later, his mother had joined him in his room and informed him of the newest developments.

“Your father and I have decided that it would be best for you to have a wand,” she announced, smiling at Harry, who was goggling her in return.

“Really!? A proper wand? I’m getting a wand? Oh, thank you Mum!” he laughed, running to hug his mother with renewed energy.

“Yes, Harry, a wand,” she confirmed, rolling her eyes at her son before leading him back downstairs into the living room.

After sitting down opposite his father, Harry looked at his parents inquisitively. William cleared his throat and looked at Alicia.

“We feel like it would be best for you to carry a wand, dear. Especially after the Bowtruckle Incident. It’s much too dangerous to have you walk around without one. Randolph can hardly be tasked with looking after you all day, and we can’t just lock you up inside the house every time we leave. No, it’s best if you carry a wand to defend yourself,” his mother explained, curtly.

‘The Bowtruckle Incident. Is that what we’re calling it now?’ Harry thought.

“Of course,” his father interjected. “You will learn proper responsibility, duelling etiquette, wand-care, and anything else required of a respectable young wizard. For example, making sure bad habits do not form, such as keep a wand in your back pocket.” William made a face as the words left his mouth. “The nerve of some people,” he added, distastefully.

“We shall also take turns on educating you on other subjects. We wouldn’t want you to fall behind on your studies just because we’re travelling, now would we?” His mother continued, as though expecting an answer.

After a moment, Harry replied. “No, of course not. That would be terrible,” he said, nodding his head earnestly.

His father cracked a smile. “Now I’m just hoping I won’t have to give you  _ that _ talk anytime soon . . ."

“William!” His mother shrieked. “The child is only eight!” She glared intently at her husband, who had the decency to look abashed, before smacking him with a nearby pillow.

“What talk, Mum?” Harry grinned, trying to provoke his mother.

“Oh, don’t go getting any  _ ideas _ , young man!”

“Alicia dear, stop being such a miserable old prune.”

“I am  _ not  _ a prune!”

Harry and William burst out laughing while Alicia smacked them both with the couch pillows. After a moment, they all calmed down, and his mother began giving him a rundown on what his ‘curriculum’ would look like for the next few months.

“Mostly theory, of course. And proper etiquette. I suppose we will have to teach you some spells, too. And then there’s the problem of your muggle education. Hogwarts does offer it as an elective, but that isn’t until Third Year, and it’s mostly history and social studies. I guess we can try and keep up with that,” she said, going off on a tangent.

Harry didn’t object, focusing instead on all the magic he was going to learn, for  _ real _ . And he was getting a  _ wand _ , too.

“I think Randolph wouldn’t object to teaching you potions, right? He did get a NEWT in it, after all. Then I could teach you Transfiguration and Astronomy. I’ll take care of the etiquette lessons, too. Your father could give you DADA and Herbology along with Duelling. And we could both give you History of Magic and Charms, I think. Am I missing, anything, William?”

“I don’t think so, no . . . Oh, yes - muggle education, remember?”

“Mmm. I suppose we’ll just have to sort that out. They must have some books in a muggle library, no? I think so, yes. Then it’s settled. Alright Harry, up to the bed, now. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

With that, Harry was sent to bed, his mother’s tone carrying a finality that hinted at a possible rebuke of her earlier promise. He hadn’t dared make a noise that night, lest they decide against the wand by morning.

* * *

Harry walked down the cobbled street, holding his mother’s hand, glancing nervously at all the passersby, even though none of them seemed to be paying any attention to him. He kept his eye on every single person they passed and gripped his mother’s hand even stronger. Finally, they stopped in front of a small store.

In peeling gold letters, -  _ Ollivanders: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 BC  _ \- was written over the door of the shop.

Harry looked up expectantly at his mother. She nodded in return, seemingly sensing his thoughts. The shop was narrow and shabby, and the only thing on display consisted of a solitary wand lying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. Ollivanders wasn’t all that impressive from the outside, but on the inside . . .

Just as dull. The shop was tiny, empty except for a single spindly chair in the corner. Thousands of narrow boxes containing wands were piled upright to the ceiling of the tiny shop, and the whole place had a layer of dust about it. A small flight of stairs led to a landing just above, which circled the shop, allowing one to reach even further up the piles of wands.

The Hogwarts term had already started, Harry reminded himself. There weren’t going to be any other children for a while, especially not here. There was no need to stress himself. But if it weren’t for his mother holding his hand, he had no doubt he would have been a little creeped out by the dusty store, bustling students or not.

At that thought, the namesake of the shop appeared, seemingly from above. It was likely that he was asleep, Harry thoughts. They were rather early.

“Ah, William! 10 1/2 inches, elm and dragon heartstring, was it?” Ollivander asked, peering over his spectacles. “I hope it’s been treating you well?”

“Yes, Garrick,” came his father’s curt reply.

“And Alicia as well. 9 3/4, beech and unicorn tail, if I recall correctly.” His mother simply nodded in return. With this introduction, Ollivander moved his gaze towards the youngest of the Portwoods.

“And who might this be?”

“Our son, Harry.”

Ollivander’s eyes widened, if only slightly. “Look far too young for Hogwarts. I’m assuming this should be kept ‘off the record’, as they say.”

Seeing no sign to do otherwise, the eccentric wandmaker continued.

“Now, now, let me see . . .” He began, turning around towards the piles of boxes at his back.

“Can you make a wand?”

Ollivander halted and raised an eyebrow in Harry’s direction. The last time someone had asked him for a custom wand had been a ages ago...

“Of course. Wouldn’t be much of a wandmaker if I didn’t. I take it you have something in mind?”

Harry reached into his robes and pulled out a piece of white cloth, wrapped around a medium-sized twig. Ollivander’s breath hitched. “Do you know what kind of wood it is, Mr Portwood?”

Harry shook his head, so Ollivander took the cloth and unwrapped it, staring intently at the branch and tracing its length with his finger. His eyes widened.

“Oh my, oh my. Very well then, I’m sure something can be arranged.” He looked up at the Portwoods. “I’m assuming you don’t want this to be recorded, now do you?”

Alicia was about to say something, but William cut her off. “That would be preferable,” he said, ignoring the angry look she was sending his way.

Nodding, Ollivander led the Portwoods into the back of the shop, and took a sharp turn, opening a door Harry was positively sure hadn’t been there before. 

They walked into a rather large workshop - which seemed odd considering the size of the shop, but Harry reasoned it must have been magically expanded. As he tried to look around, however, he found that his brain would start to get all muddled and a splitting headache would start forming, so he focused on the white frizz of hair belonging to Mr Ollivander instead. 

He continued following Ollivander, who walked down the length of the workshop and into a smaller area at the back, walled off from the rest of the workspace.

Ollivander must have noticed the pained look on Harry’s face. “Ah, apologies - that would be a variant of the Notice-Me-Not charm. It does cause a terrible headache, to which you’ll have to excuse me. A wandmaker must have his own secrets - you understand, of course. There we go… place your hand there, Mr Portwood,” he said, before turning around to the Portwoods, who were staring at him.

Noticing that Harry was already near the desk, he began, ignoring the expectant looks William and Alicia were giving him. “Yes, good. Now, simply pick up each of the jars, and think of which one feels the best to hold. Good, good. Then, arrange them in accordance with that you felt. The best ones on the right.”

Feeling weirded out by the vague instructions, Harry did so, cycling through the many jars on the table, sometimes going back to test them again, before finally deciding.

Ollivander stared at the choices. “Interesting. Now, how about—”

He was cut off by Harry, whose hand shot up, grabbing a vial of green mucus-like liquid that lay shimmering in a vial on one of his lower shelves. Harry then placed the vial on the table, right next to the Phoenix feather in a stationary charm jar. He looked up at Ollivander, bright eyes contrasting old, worn-down brown ones, with a look of horror on his face.

“I’m sorry Mr Ollivander! I didn’t mean to! My hand, it just - ” he exclaimed.

Ollivander sighed, a smile gracing his lips, while Alicia began to simultaneously scold her son and also apologise to the wandmaker, resulting in a garbled mess.

Ollivander just waved his hand. “It’s quite alright, Alicia. He’s not harmed, is he?” He reassured, seeming more interesting in Harry’s choices than whatever punishment Alicia was brewing up in her head.

Ollivander peered over the two choices Harry had made. He stroked his chin, deep in thought, before speaking. 

“A Phoenix feather. The rarest core type I usually tend to work with. Phoenix feathers are capable of the greatest range of magic, though they may take longer than either unicorn or dragon cores to reveal this. They show the most initiative, sometimes acting of their own accord, a quality that many witches and wizards dislike.”

Ollivander paused for a moment and seemed to consider something.

“And Basilisk  _ venom _ . How curious. I have only experimented with  _ horns  _ in my career of wand crafting, you see, though the last time was many years ago. Very rare, you see. And never the venom, at that. Are you sure, Mr Portwood? I have found that cores other than The Three to be very tricky to work with, and usually not worth the trouble at all. 

“If it’s alright with you Mr Ollivander, I think I’d like to use the Basilisk venom - it tingles when I touch the vial,” Harry said, looking up towards the wandmaker. 

Ollivander’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared into his grey hair. “Oh, really? Well then, we better do that, instead. I still do think this will prove to be a challenge, but it might work very nicely, yes, indeed.”

Ollivander muttered to himself for a while before drawing his attention back to the Portwoods.

“Mmm, yes. Now, you’ve already brought in a specimen of your own choosing, but let’s have a look at the other wood samples, and you can tell me if there’s any that strikes your fancy.”

Harry was mostly silent as he touched the woodblocks until he reached a certain relative of the birch tree. He drew in his breath quickly and spoke, his voice nearly a whisper. “This one.”

Ollivander reached out to the choice of wood, running his hand over the surface in what appeared to be an identification process. 

“Hmm. This is Alder, I believe. Very rare to be seen in a wand, though not because the wood itself is scarce. You see this marking, right here? The ‘bleeding’ effect imposes balance, which is why the few wands made of alder are often those with strongly opposing cores. However, it also has a bad reputation due to the pale red that comes across during maturity, which many believe signifies death and violence. I suppose it is also hard to work with due to it being unyielding, but I have never found those to be much trouble. If I remember correctly, it is best suited to non-verbal spell work - that would make for the better part of its reputation - many seem to believe it is suitable for only the most advanced witches and wizards.” Ollivander trailed off, only to look up and realise he had been speaking out loud. “Oh, silly me. Well, I think I have enough to work with now, Mr Portwood. Yes, I’m sure I can make something work.” He began muttering to himself, running calculations of unknown magnitudes.

William and Alicia seemed weirded out, and turned to leave, pulling Harry with them. “Well then, we’ll be back at, say, 11 o’clock?” His father said, distractedly.

“Yes, yes, that’ll work,” Ollivander muttered from where he had sat down.

Harry wasn’t sure if the wandmaker even noticed that they were still there, so he pulled his parents out of the shop and led them down to Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour.

* * *

Randolph Spudmore finished etching the last runic array along the base of the broomstick, taking extra care for it not to coincide with the other array meant for regular flight. He kept one eye on the mess of notes beside him, seemingly drawing some semblance of knowledge from the heap of clutter.

He then bolted and screwed in the prototype steel metalwork that the goblins had been so  _ generous _ to send in advance and positively beamed at the finished prototype. He’d envisioned years of work, in all honesty, but with William’s help and Alicia’s contacts, he’d managed to get everything ready in just a few months.

Randolph took the time to clear the surrounding area of any possible hazards, before coating the floor and walls around him in Softening Charms, to make his more-than-likely fall somewhat less painful.

He picked up the new broomstick and was about to set it down when he remembered Harry’s suggestion. A brilliant one, at that.

With a steel-tipped quill and golden ink, he etched  _ Firebolt _ into the shaft, and set everything down again, taking the newly-named broomstick, the first of its kind, with him towards the designated testing area.

Setting the freshly-polished broom on the ground, he stood straight, extended his hand, and with almost practised poise, commanded.

“UP!”

A huge grin threatened to burst Randolph’s cheeks as the broomstick sped into his hand, teeming and ready for action. Randolph allowed himself one full breath to calm himself. He was so close, so very close to fulfilling his father’s dream, he just knew it. He knew that if he managed to fall off or do something equally stupid at this pivotal moment, he’d be making his father turn in his grave.

Slowly, he climbed onto the broomstick, and his hand and feet almost glided to the correct locations, where they tightened and curled respectively. Then, with a large whoop, he titled the broomstick forward. . .

Only to whizz out of the bunker, the wind blowing through his hair, his face alight with tears of happiness, and the largest smile plastered on his face. He sped up, edging the broom faster and faster, wiping the tears from his face with a gloved hand, and spun in circles, twisting, turning with joy.

He spent the next hour or so in the air before bringing the broom to a halt and descending slowly.

Holding the broom close to his heart, he walked towards his father’s grave - on the outskirts of the forest - and stood in front of it, staring silently, before his voice croaked.

“I finally accomplished the task you set out for, father. I finally did it. It finally works, and brilliantly, might I add.” Randolph sighed.

Randolph would continue to stand there, recounting what he’d accomplished so far to his father, how he hoped to follow in his footsteps, how he wanted to make him proud, and that he would yet make the world know the Spudmore name. He promised all of this with a heavy hand on his heart. With a heart-wrenching sob, he promised he would see it done.

* * *

Diagon Alley was a busy street, even at this time of the year - rightly so, otherwise, it would not be called the largest magical commercial district in London. In fact, the only other which might rival it would be its shady brother - Knockturn Alley. But little children were not allowed in there, lest they become snatched up, unsuspecting, by a gloomy hag. It was these warnings that staved off Harry’s curiosity for now, though it remained ever-growing.

It was also this same curiosity that led the Portwoods to distraction, as the young boy flitted between shop and stall, relishing in the small time he had been given to look at all the wares. He focused less on the people behind those shops, as looking at them for too long served to build up tension in his heart. He wasn’t even sure why, but Harry suspected he might have enjoyed the experience of the market much more if there had been fewer people and more time.

But Harry’s attention was wrestled for long enough from the bright and colourful herbs of the Apothecary that William was able to walk him into Flourish and Blotts. As they had walked in, Harry tugged on his mother's hand, grabbing her attention.

“Mother, may I purchase a book?” he asked, in the most formal tongue he could, because any other way would prove to be uncomfortable, especially under the eyes of strangers.

Understandably, she did not question his choice of wording. “Go on, then. Don’t bother with your allowance. We can pay for it.”

Harry then wandered off towards the back of the bookstore, where he knew the more obscure and interesting texts were kept - if not by understanding, then by instinct. At the last aisle, Harry waded through other customers to reach the portion of the bookshop where they kept the more  _ uncommon _ volumes.

He had laid his eyes on a shiny looking leatherbound one - probably one of the newer copies. Even though it wasn’t terribly colourful, it was still brighter than the other tomes surrounding it. It looked rather out of place, now that he thought about it. 

Harry could not reach his intended book, and so he tried sliding one of the moving ladders closer so he would be able to climb up and grab the book he so wanted. He was about to start up the steps when he was stopped by a middle-aged man with shoulder-length black hair and a lean figure. The man, who was wearing black robes and an expensive-looking ring on his right hand, asked him a question, the corner of his lips upturned.

“Need any help there, young man?”

Harry simply nodded, his eyes still focused on the book. The man followed his line of sight and read the cover of the book, his brow furrowing a slight bit.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit too advanced for your age?” he said, chuckling somewhat seriously.

"Perhaps. You needn’t bother yourself though, I can get it by myself,” he said, struggling with the words and tone of formality, though he still sounded impatient.

“Now, now, what kind of wizard would I be, to deny the children of today to experience the absolute  _ joy  _ of learning,” he said, smiling. A full ten seconds passed before he sighed in resignation and picked out the book. He handed it down to Harry, and for the first time, their eyes met.

“Here you go, lad. Have fun with... Merlin’s beard—”

But Harry didn’t hear the rest, having run off amongst the aisles with his shiny new book in hand.

Harry returned to his parents, not a minute after thanking the man, even though he hadn’t answered. He handed his mother the book he had chosen and received a questioning look in return.

_ “The Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages: Introductory Guide to the Magical and Muggle Dialects of the World _ ?” His mother asked. “Bit of a mouthful, if you ask me.”

“I mean, we are travelling across the world,” William intervened. “It would do us some good to learn the languages beforehand,” he reasoned, before grabbing the pile of books his wife had been carrying and taking it to the wavy-haired attendant.

They walked out of the bookstore soon after, and Harry took the chance to ask his parents what they had bought. To his dismay, they remained very elusive about their purchases.

“We can show you once we get back, Harry dear.”

Harry huffed.

The Portwoods would go on to visit many shops after that, but nothing of particular importance caught Harry’s eye, and so they were able to get everything done rather quickly within the hour.

Thus, the group returned to Ollivanders with several bags filled with shrunken merchandise, including books, a new mortar and pestle, ink and quills, and several packets of herbs. Harry also managed to buy a packet of sweets, after promising that it wouldn’t spoil his dinner.

They entered the mysterious little shop quietly and were greeted by the old wandmaker once more. He nodded once in their direction and walked back to his office, returning with a small reddish-white box.

“Is this really it?” Harry asked, the excitement pure and unbridled in his voice.

Ollivander took on a prideful, and - in Harry’s opinion - slightly solemn look, while his parents looked a little apprehensive. 

“Alder, 11 and 3/4, unyielding. The handle you see carved there was made out of that very special branch you brought me. There are two cores in this wand - Pheonix feather and Basilisk venom - which, mind you, took a very long time to properly introduce to the rest of the wood. I do hope this wand lasts you a long time, Mr Portwood - it was not easy to make. Now…?” Ollivander gestured towards the box in Harry’s hand.

“Go on,” his father urged.

Harry took the small rectangular box with both his hands and caressed it once, tracing the name  _ Ollivanders _ before opening it with a small click. The wand lay there, settled amongst a pure velvet red cushion. Harry gingerly picked up the wand and held it in his grip firmly, his eyes widening.

It felt oddly warm, Harry thought. Warm, yet somehow cool to the touch at the same time.

“Give it a wave, Mr Portwood.” Ollivander prompted. “Just to be sure.”

Harry did as he was asked, waving it briskly to the right. With a start, the tip of his wand  _ exploded  _ \- Harry swore softly -  _ into thousands of golden sparks _ .

Ollivander sighed, releasing some tension that Harry hadn’t even realised had been there at all. He looked around, glancing at his parents. They looked pleased, at least.

“You wouldn’t mind if I kept the rest of the branch, now would you, Mr Portwood? You can have your pick of my wand-care supplies.”

Harry left the small shop with a tub of pale cream and a soft square of fabric to be used when polishing his new wand, and a growing smile on his face.

* * *

Harry made his way back into his room, anxiously placing his books on his bed before returning downstairs towards the promise of a talk, offered by his parents. The thoughts of tutoring, and classes, ran through his head. He was going to learn - not only magic - but everything a proper wizard was expected to know. Along with some things he wasn’t expected to know, of course. How else would he gain an edge on his future classmates?

His curriculum, as his mother had duly called it, was written down on a piece of parchment, and promptly handed to him as he sat down. It consisted of time allocations for lessons over the next week. At the end of every month, they would test him on what he had learned. If he passed in  _ all _ subjects, then he would move on towards more difficult subjects - for an eight-year-old, at least.

Harry looked over the piece of paper in anticipation. His face fell slightly. It appeared that most of the work he would be doing was just pure theory - certainly nothing dangerous - and on top of that, over half of it was Muggle.

With a sigh, he looked up towards his mother, but one stern gaze from her made sure he didn’t complain about the lessons. It  _ was  _ better than nothing, he supposed.

Over the next month, Harry would be enduring bouts of muggle world history, arithmetic, geography, and language studies - which currently consisted of English and German, courtesy of Randolph. When he asked if there weren’t any magical means of translation, his mother explained that most of the options were either too expensive or too antiquated for modern use. Something about not updating the spells, though he hadn’t asked what she meant about that.

“Besides,” she argued. “What will you do when you’re surrounded by muggles? You can’t exactly whip out your wand for every little sentence they utter. It would be terribly uncouth of you. Now, read this passage out loud and try to point out the mistakes.”

In addition to that, he took the standard etiquette lessons from his mother, half of which consisted of memorising titles and wizarding social hierarchy.

“Now, what do you do when you meet a young lady?”

“You bow and kiss her softly on the knuckles, and never for too long.”

“-and?”

“You say, ‘pleased to meet you, Miss’ and say her last name. If I don’t know, I am to ask.”

“Very good. Now, show me the varying degrees of a bow.”

* * *

Between Alicia and William, the Portwoods had a very good knowledge of modern and ancient magical history. Granted, their lectures on magical theory probably weren’t as good as those of an actual professor, but Harry managed to make sense of it, usually by spending his nights holed up in his room re-reading the sections of the book that he had been assigned. His first lesson had been on the Fundamental Laws of Magic, the first of which was slightly confusing to him.

> _ “The further one goes towards meddling in the deepest underlying laws of magic, the more drastic and terrible the consequences will be.” _

His parents had said that this was only a general principle, but that it was good advice to follow.

“There are certain things that aren’t meant to be sought out, Harry. It would do you tremendous good to not delve too deep into the intricacies of magic - even though it runs through us, magic is something far more powerful than any single witch or wizard, and there have been many who suffered dire consequences - for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is magic’s way of maintaining balance, in a way.”

Harry listened to the half-advice, half-lesson on magic with wide eyes, and his father gave one last comment before wrapping up the lesson.

“Magic, it would seem, is a great lover of irony.”

As the days passed, one thing became evident to Harry. No matter his parents competency with magical subjects, there was still something lacking when it came to  _ muggle _ academics.

Let it remain known that the Portwoods had very little knowledge  _ of  _ muggle subjects - let alone  _ how  _ to teach them. They were certainly aware of science and history, proving to be less ignorant than most wizardkind, but they still managed to argue over certain topics, even when referring to the same muggle textbooks - leaving Harry with a sour experience in muggle learnings.

Most of this initial distaste could be chalked up to Muggle World History. This was most likely due to the subject being taught by  _ both  _ of his parents, and in some small bout of rivalry, his parents would bicker over certain historical descriptions.

“That is an  _ incredibly  _ demeaning retelling of events!”

“Well, of course, you’d say that,” William answered, rolling his eyes. “You lost.”

“We didn’t lose! We were on your side!” Alicia said, a bewildered look in her eyes.

“Yes, a bunch of turn-cloaks. Even worse.” William snorted.

Harry watched the argument with thinly veiled fascination. It was only much later, as he tiptoed down to the kitchen for a glass of water that he would find his father, fast asleep, on the couch.

Magical World History was infinitely better, due to both of his teachers having actually studied the subjects. The first topic was modern history, which in Harry’s case, involved the last twenty or so years. Most of it consisted of geopolitical relations between countries - especially the ones they were due to visit - along with some important discoveries and innovations into fields of magic. They covered some important figures because of this, such as the recent Ministers for Magic, and other famous individuals such as Albus Dumbledore and the Flamels.

In addition to history lessons, he also took language studies. Over the course of the month, Harry continued with English regularly, while also picking up German with the same intensity, and occasionally learning a small bit of Arabic - as they were due to visit Egypt soon after Germany. These study sessions, when not working on muggle worksheets, involved mostly casual talk with his parents and Randolph, littered with key phrases or idioms that could surface anytime with dialogue. Sadly, there was no one available to speak to in Arabic, so Harry had to practice reading and writing, and only had books to help with pronunciation.

Interestingly enough, he found that by learning the language, the entire culture seemed to be more inviting than usual. Harry had now taken to German, and he would practice reading out loud together with Randolph - who would help him understand certain words that he didn’t understand. The same would be done for him in English, but he read more difficult books, instead. After many weeks, Randolph had forgone English entirely, and instead only spoke German, which challenged Harry immensely, especially if he wanted to ask the man something.

On one such occasion, Harry had approached Randolph, looking for clarification on a word.

“ _ Ja _ , Harry?”

“Randolph, what does Grimm mean?” Harry asked, in somewhat flawed German.

“Grim? Why that’s an odd request. Where did you come across this word, by chance?” Randolph smiled.

Harry fidgeted. He knew he was a terrible liar, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone, to tell the truth, but he didn’t want to take a chance. A half-truth, instead.

“I don’t remember. It just popped into my head. I must’ve found it in some book or something. Is it a real word?”

“Of course it’s a real word. It’s got several meanings, too - depending on who you ask, that is,” Randolph began, while Harry settled down at the foot of the armchair, gazing into the fireplace, his ear turned towards the man speaking.

“First and foremost, it means ‘forbidding and uninviting’. As in ‘the situation looked grim’.” Randolph levelled his gaze at Harry, who had turned around, his eyes wide open.

“However, if you’re referring to  _ Grimm  _ then you’re probably talking about the long-extinct Noble House of Grimm, or someone who claims to be their descendants, which is bogus - the family died out years ago with the last two brothers.”

“Brothers?” Harry asked. He only remembered reading one name on the stone. The fire ahead of him seemed to cackle with increased intensity, as though it noticed his apprehension.

“Yes, two brothers. Both bachelors, scholars, academics, and pure-blooded wizards. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. Never married, never had any children, and dedicated themselves to the dark, the occult, and the study of magical creatures and beasts.

“They studied magizoology?”

“Yes, very good. They were arguably one of the most well known German magizoologists in their time. Very secretive though. Never really shared anything they accomplished with the rest of the wizarding world. Some of their work was published posthumously - after they died, that is. However, it was rumoured that only a small bit of their work was  _ actually  _ published after they passed away - the rest is said to be buried together with them, six feet under. It would have been half for each brother, I suppose.”

Harry paled as he remembered the events in the forest that was still fresh in his mind. He continued staring into the fire for a full minute as he connected the dots. Still, a little bit shook, he collected himself and stood up.

“Thanks, Randolph. You were a big help.”

“My pleasure.”

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Harry would withdraw into solitary confinement, leaving his room only to eat and attend lessons given by his parents. He even had to be dragged down for tea—several times a week—which was something he had  _ never _ missed before. 

Day and night, he would stay awake, preparing for the ‘tests’ his parents had decided to spring on him after a month of learning. Harry wanted to prove that he could be responsible enough to venture back out into the forest alone and had decided to pass the tests before setting off - something that he hoped would prove he could take care of himself in what was usually a mild forest. 

After years of living the search for information about his scar, Harry wanted to prove to his parents that he was just as serious as they were, in regards to his scar. Considering that his parents were looking for references to Horcruxes in magizoology and that the nature of his ailment was very much Dark, Harry came to the conclusion that if the rumours about the brothers Grimm were true, and they really did study the occult, then the marble stone he had found earlier might have some clue as to what a Horcrux  _ was _ . If the possibility - however slim - existed, then he would work hard towards preparing himself for another trip into the Black Forest. 

He definitely didn’t want to be useless, stuck at home while his parents tired themselves looking for a way to cure something he had been cursed with even before meeting them. He vowed he was going to help best he could, and right now, that meant proving he was ready to go out and look for a cure himself.

Harry threw himself onto the ground, panting hard. He flinched instinctively and ducked as another red bolt of light flew overhead. He had just enough time to straighten his wand and mutter  _ Flipendo _ \- but the spell fizzled at the tip of his wand - and he was rewarded with another bolt of light smashing into his face. 

He roused minutes later, after his father’s quick  _ Rennervate _ . He had been enjoying peacefully sleeping in on Saturday when some crazed lunatic - his father, apparently - had decided that it was a good idea for a surprise ‘pop quiz’. After the ‘pop quiz’ turned out to be a scary but ultimately harmless wizards duel, Harry had been too exhausted to even glare at his father, who was now set on congratulating him for basically flopping around in a cocoon of blankets. 

“Harry, that was unnaturally good!” William exclaimed, clearly proud of the fact that his son had managed to let off two spells before being completely swamped by a barrage of stunning spells. 

He had gone back to bed, groaning, but only really got to see the fruit of his suffering the next morning, over breakfast. 

“He managed to wake up and dodge my spell just in time, and returned the favour! Twice, at that! I think my son is a duelling prodigy! At eight!” 

Harry sat on the couch while his father relayed the events of last night’s ‘test’ to his mother, who wasn’t looking terribly amused. 

“This was your idea of a test?” she said, indignantly. “He’s not going to be—” she suddenly stopped, abandoning her case, though still looking very cross. 

“You know what, fine. I don’t expect him to be duelling at this age, anyways,” she finished, before turning on her son. “And you - don’t think of this as an invitation to do so next year, or the year after that. I’ll have my son safe, thank you very much.”

Harry felt warm inside seeing her protective and knew she meant well, even if a small part of him burned with an even warmer intensity - a passion, striving to be better - for their sake, as much as his own.

With last night’s ordeal over, Harry had passed all of his tests - even though he hadn’t truly done so in his own mind. The duelling ‘pop quiz’ had been the last. Even the muggle exams, which Alicia had travelled back abroad for, had been relatively easy - though he found the printing to be peculiar, and the paper had felt odd under his touch. What hadn’t been easy, however, was the fact that he had to devote extra time to them, studying on his own time because of the incessant bickering that had become his Muggle World History lessons. 

Harry was sure that he was the leading under-twelve expert on conflicts between England and Italy, considering that every lesson mostly consisted of each of his parents trying to prove which country had a better history in war. Anything else concerning muggles saw his parents sluggishly boring through the content, not particularly caring about it unless it affected wizards in some terrible or painful way. 

Such examples usually involved the Spanish Inquisition, or the Salem Witch Trials, and were always a fun topic to discuss over tea, with Randolph sometimes dropping in to add some wisdom regarding the situation in early modern Germany. Most of these afternoons ended in William recalling how - allegedly - his great-great-great-grandfather helped track down Matthew Hopkins and rid Britain of the “scum that was the witch-hunters”.

Later that week, when his parents had gone off on another of their searches, Harry had gotten ready to venture into the Black Forest. He had been ready to leave for days now, but he needed a long window of time so he could get everything done without any interference - with Randolph working in the shed, and his parents out, Harry had enough time to hopefully leave and make his way back safely. 

Harry grabbed his mokeskin pouch and reassured himself that everything was inside - books, food, water, a single Pepperup potion he had nicked from the potions cabinet, and his writing materials - before walking out the cottage and into the grassy clearing outside.

He fidgeted with his Yuletide gift as he walked. A leather wand holster, attached to his hip. It had bothered him initially, as it continually prodded him in the side, but after a while, he got used to it. Now, whenever he had his robes on, his holster was there too - his father had drilled that into him sufficiently enough.

As he made his way towards the line of trees that separated the opening from possible death, he went over what he had learned, hoping he wouldn’t forget something important somewhere along the way. 

Muttering to himself, he remembered his last trip into the forest. He had gone into it foolishly, without thinking of the possible consequences. Shortly after he had returned, his mother would take to reminding him of the danger of the Black Forest.

His nightmares didn’t return, but he always had trouble falling asleep - sometimes he’d spend hours awake after hearing the wind whistle through the trees - something that chilled him to the bone, colder than any harsh weather.

Clearing his mind of any more thoughts that threatened to turn him around, he traced his memories back to the first week after returning from Diagon Alley. 

His father had taken a somewhat indirect approach to physical duelling techniques. While most teachers would, during a set period of time, have you practice your quick draw time and time again, William said that he had always been too surprised if the need arrived outside of class.

With this in mind, his father had set forth a little game. Anytime one of the adults - including Randolph, much to his bemusement - shouted “Attention!”, Harry had to draw his wand and shoot off a particular spell -  _ Periculum _ .

If he did it quickly enough, then he’d receive a sweet for his good effort. If not, then they would take away  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them  _ for a whole entire day, which was uncalled for, in Harry’s opinion. 

Regardless, It was safe to say that Harry had perfected his quick draw in a couple of days, even if the more peculiar situations still caught him off guard - he’d certainly had enough trouble during the first few days, after which he began taking his wand  _ everywhere _ with him - even to the bathroom. After a couple of days, it had become almost a habit, in essence.

The one thing he hadn’t known - until recently - was that  _ Periculum _ was supposed to be used as a warning spell - or faulting that, just a pretty light show.

His father had made him practice the two most necessary items when facing the unknown.

“Draw your wand, and...don’t be afraid to call for help.”

He had also begun instructing Harry on three basic, if not near harmless, combat spells.  _ Flipendo, Petrificus Totalus,  _ and  _ Ventus _ . They all had their uses, but at his current state,  _ Flipendo _ was the only thing really powerful enough to use reliably in a duel - not that he’d be getting himself into any duels anytime soon - his mother had made that much clear to him. 

Besides, his father could shake off the  _ Ventus, _ and his  _ Petrificus Totalus _ was too slow for his liking, which irritated him to no end. So he resorted to  _ Flipendo _ most of the time, even if it made him very predictable.

Finally, nearing the end of his second monthly cycle of lessons, Harry had been taught one of the most useful spells -  _ Lumos _ , and its counterpart,  _ Nox -  _ by his mother, who had grown tired of his please for one practical lesson that didn’t involve stinging hexes and slinging jinxes. It also happened to be the spell he was currently muttering, repeatedly, before he scolded himself for attracting half the forest with his dim little light show. He plunged deeper into the forest - focusing on his surroundings instead of the information flying through his head.

Harry took a deep breath, readying his wand, before whispering.

“ _ Nox _ ”.


	6. Once More, With Feeling!

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER SIX: ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING!**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

Harry trudged through the Black Forest, determination etched across his face. The familiar thick of the trees blotted out the sun's rays, leaving splotches of bright sunlight on the ground. He walked through these spots as much as possible in an attempt to combat the cold that seemed to be intent on slowing him down. Still, even the warm sun couldn't help much, instead only accelerating the unnatural chill he felt creeping up his spine.

Harry dodged a branch that had appeared out of nowhere and rubbed his nose, trying to fight off the bitter cold that was slowly settling all through his joints. He walked for another few minutes before settling down for one of his many planned rest periods.

Taking out the small sandwich he had packed, he leaned against an oddly bright trunk and nibbled on it carefully, attentive that the smell of cooked ham might attract animals, magical or not.

After finishing half of his meal, he wrapped it again and left it in his pouch, while taking a quick sip of water before returning to his walk.

The meal did little to soothe him, but he walked with renewed vigour after it, intent on reaching the clearing. This increased pace, however, did not deter him from observing his surroundings - if he would find something worth noting, he would do exactly that, removing his journal and pausing to jot down his findings, or, if the situation called for it, he would sketch something quick.

As he walked through the forest, he spotted a peculiar nest hanging from one of the trees. Upon approaching it, he tried to find the entrance - out of which sprouted a thin and mournful-looking bird. It looked somewhat like a small and underfed vulture, and if not for its greenish tinted black feathers - and the fact that they were in Germany - he would have mistaken it for one. Settling down amongst the brambles, he pulled out his books in an attempt to identify the creature.

"I should really make an identification chart for these kinds of things…"

Harry would spend a small amount of time leafing through descriptions of birds, muggle and magical, in an attempt to identify it. He was half-way through _Fantastic Beasts_ when he heard a familiar low and throbbing cry - seemingly coming from the nest.

A look of exasperation crossed his face. "Oh, of course, it's a ruddy Irish Phoenix. They really should add pictures to these descriptions - black feathers aren't enough to identify a bird," he muttered, flipping back to find the entry on the Augurey, as it was better known. "Guess it's going to rain, too, then. Bugger."

Decidedly, he finished his sketch of the bird and closed his journal, packing up his materials swiftly, feeling somewhat accomplished, even if he wasted an unnecessary amount of time trying to identify the bird.

He continued on his small journey through the forest. An unnatural mist had soon begun to hang close to the treetops, blocking out the little rays of the sun that had pierced the forest ground before. He idly thought of what he would do when he returned - his parents would undoubtedly be cross at him for coming back here, but he _had_ to...right?

Harry anxiously reached for his wand, even though there was nothing that called for it. He thought of his drawings, and how his mother had complimented them earlier this week. He was delighted to see his own progress in that field because until he could afford to buy his own camera, he would have to be content with sketches, and there were some cases where they were needed, considering a few creatures didn't react well to bright flashes, and so he was happy with the practice. He reached his hand up to block a low-hanging branch.

His writing had gotten better too, and the constant reading he had to do to keep up with the workload he was tasked with greatly expanded his vocabulary, although most words were quite archaic by muggle standards. Others were just funny to say, like 'incorrigible'. Not that it helped much with keeping him entertained. Had the clearing really been this far off?

* * *

It took Harry a while to start feeling the effect of exhaustion - he had prepared well enough, and the duelling training his father had put him through had gotten him used to the exertion. But still, he could hardly be expected to keep up with this forever, even with prolonged breaks, and it was getting to the point where he had spent too much time in the forest. If he stayed much longer it would become dark and he would have trouble getting home - just like last time.

He mentally debated turning around right there and hoped that he would be able to return before anyone noticed that he had been gone. Kicking a leaf, he decided that he could always come back later. Maybe it wasn't meant to be, he reasoned. Maybe the magic surrounding the Wiggentree was preventing him from finding it twice, he thought.

Just as he stopped to turn on his heel, he felt a small tug at his waist. Turning quickly around, he jumped back from whatever he had felt and reached for his wand, to make sure it hadn't been snatched. He felt the tug again and quickly drew his wand.

_Tug._

"What the bloody hell?" he exclaimed, gripping his wand tightly.

_Tug._

He was yanked forward, and he stumbled, almost falling into the leaf-padded dirt before regaining his footing.

_Tug._

He walked more carefully now, though the occasional tugging still threw him off - it didn't seem to follow any particular rhythm.

_Tug._

Sighing, he walked forward, changing his direction slightly every time his wand nudged him in a different direction. It looked as though his wand wanted to take him somewhere. Did all wands behave like this?

The tugging became more urgent, and Harry had to speed up to appease his impatient wand. Soon, he was dashing across the forest floor, evading trees and roots alike, seemingly flowing through the overgrowth, guided by his wand.

After a couple more minutes of arduous running, he spotted the glade. His eyes wide and a huge grin threatening to break his face, Harry ran towards the clearing, hollering as loudly as he could, completely forgetting about the other possible occupants of the forest, and what they might do if they heard him.

He reached the open space and stopped, taking in the surroundings once more with a deep breath. Nothing had changed, and it was still as perfect as he had remembered. With a swift hand, he reached into his mokeskin pouch and took out a small jar of woodlice that he had brought, setting it on the ground with a bow towards the Wiggentree.

His head still lowered, he glanced forward, taking a peek at the small Bowtruckle that approached him. They had all been of the same colour the last time he checked, but somehow, he knew that this was the one who had guided him here before, he rose and gave another bow, this time towards the small creature, in thanks.

The Bowtruckle blinked, and its beady eyes focused then on the jar of woodlice, seeming appeased. Suddenly, dozens of other Bowtruckles arrived through the forest and trickled into the clearing, gathering around the jar.

Harry took all of this as a sign of goodwill, and he made his way forward and around the tree, looking for the space he had fallen asleep at last time.

Brushing at the fallen leaves on the ground, he found the stone that had eluded him for so long. Carefully, so as to not disturb the clearing too much, he swiped away the leaves covering the marble surface, and with a pronounced swish of his wand, whispered " _Ventus_ ".

The dirt and dust cleared the ground, forced away by the gust of wind he had just conjured. As they settled, he stared instead at a clean marble surface, white and polished as though it had just been placed, even though it was most likely hundreds of years old.

'It must be magic', Harry thought, inspecting the state of the shimmering white marble beneath him.

He then took the time to carefully read the markings on the grave - belonging to one:

> **Jacob Ludwig Karl Grimm**
> 
> **4 January 1805 – 20 September 1883**
> 
> **" _Vertraue niemandem, der dir nicht vertrauen kann"_**

His suspicions confirmed, and with a newfound feeling of bravery, he moved his gaze towards the middle of the marble, where a crest was etched into the stone. It was a simple outline of a shield, at least on marble, with a single wolf - no, a Grim - in the middle, its snout pointed upwards as though it were howling at the moon.

Harry crouched down and ran his left over the markings, his fingers slowly ending up at the crest, before he reached out with his right hand and touched the Grim with his wand.

There was a powerful hum that shook through the earth, but it stopped just as soon as it started. Then came a mighty groan as the large marble stone folded inwards, much like the bricks in the Diagon Alley archway. Although, this appeared to use larger blocks of stone, instead of many small bricks.

It opened up completely, the stone pieces melding into the stone walls below, and revealed a steep, gloomy staircase of dark stone which seemed to go on forever.

A draft of damp air rose to meet Harry's wide eyes, and he felt the growing pressure of excitement and anticipation building in his gut.

"The resting place of Jacob Grimm," he muttered, peering over the entrance and into the darkness.

'Finally,' he added silently, tightening his grip on his wand. He breathed the incantation of the Wand-Lighting Charm, and the staircase below him lit up in bright light.

With a burst of energy, he took one step forward and placed his foot hesitantly on the first step, wincing in fear of some curse or trap.

When none came, he sighed in relief. After taking another few steps down, his head was below the surface, and he could feel the stale air trickling down his nape.

It was a steep descent, and near the end of the light given off by his wand, Harry could see a slight curvature to the walls. The staircase, which apparently curled into a spiral, was clearly ancient and abandoned, having not seen sunlight for probably over a hundred years. However, there were no signs of dust or rubble anywhere, which was probably due to any lingering preservation charms.

The small scones that lined the wall held blackened and burnt stubs of wood. It looked as though the torches had been doused, although the wood had not decayed with time. Strange markings lined the walls, and Harry could feel the enchantments they formed through the air alone. He longed to touch them but decided against it. Even though they seemed faint, he had no doubt that he would have a tough time trying to break into the walls of this tomb by force if he tried.

As he walked down the steps, he wondered on the nature of the secrets that the final resting place of the elder Grimm would contain. Piles and piles of gold and silver, mountains of jewellery? Or perhaps stacks of books and tomes that reached ceiling-high, scrolls with unimaginable knowledge? Or maybe jars of bottled and preserved creature parts, dried eyes and pickled wings? For a brief moment, he felt bad about intruding - he doubted he would have liked anyone walking into his grave once he died - but steeled himself. He wanted his parents to be able to live happy, without the stress and worry that came with his scar. He didn't want to be a problem anymore. He hated knowing that he was bringing them down. Biting his lip, he continued on and hoped that Jacob Grimm wouldn't have any problems with his interference.

As Harry reached the end of the steps, he saw a long corridor to the front of him, leading to a bolted wooden door. He hesitated. It was very possible that the entire place had been warded against intruders, and the harmless staircase had been exactly that - harmless - in order to lull thieves into a sense of security. He could very well be walking into a deathtrap.

With an audible gulp, he steeled himself, muttering over and over again that he " _had_ to do this", even though his steadfast belief in his cause was slowly beginning to wane. He trudged forward, eyes alert and muscles tensed, in case he had to dodge a fireball or something. He didn't put it past the elder Grimm - wizards have always been weird.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Harry wondered how he was going to proceed. He hadn't been harmed - yet - but hadn't faced any real obstacles either. Now he was faced with a huge bolted door, which probably weighed several times more than he did. Harry knew a couple of spells, but he hadn't attempted to cast any that might have even the slightest of chances against the current blockade.

Stretching out his wand-hand, he tapped the keyhole and whispered " _Alohomora" -_ only to be disappointed, even though he didn't really expect anything to happen.

He racked his brain for another spell, one that would help him, but perhaps not as well known as Alohomora - one that the door might not be warded against, even though he knew that it wasn't very likely.

Suddenly his head snapped up in realization. Slightly more confident, he said the incantation to the less-common spiritual predecessor to the Unlocking Charm.

" _Portaberto!"_ he exclaimed. " _Portaberto! Portaberto! Portaberto!"_ He repeated, desperately until he was out of breath.

The spell _seemed_ to work, as it _did_ splinter the lock from the door, but upon Harry's attempt at opening the door, it remained stubbornly shut.

Harry sat down and set his wand in front of him on the ground, staring at it until something came to him. His look could have bored a hole straight through the cold floor, but nothing came of it. He sat there for a while longer, making a mental list of all the spells he knew - somehow he doubted _Ventus_ was going to work, but he noted it anyways - until he remembered reading about one certain charm. It was supposedly _very_ old, and _extremely_ outdated. He hadn't even seen it in any modern spellbooks, and only very briefly when reading _A History of Magic_ , by Bathilda Bagshot.

The only problem was that he couldn't remember the incantation or wand movements. And he hadn't brought the history book with him, either. With a groan of frustration, he walked through the passage that mentioned the charm in his mind to see if the incantation came to him.

' _Even before the now-popular Alohomora and it's more haphazard predecessor, Portaberto, came the ancient spell used by middle-age battle-wizards during sieges. '_____'_ _was used sparingly, as the effect the charm had was to blast the offending door off its hinges_.'

Harry groaned. "Why can't I remember the bloody spell!?"

A while passed, and Harry fiddled with his wand for a little while more, casting certain spells - " _Ventus! Flipendo!" -_ at the door in an attempt to damage it, though nothing he tried worked against the behemoth of wood. He didn't dare attempt some of the more dangerous spells he'd read about, in fear of hurting himself in the enclosed space: _Incendio_ was out of the question.

His shoulders sagged heavily before turning around and bumping his head rather roughly against the stone wall behind him in anger.

With a yelp, Harry suddenly _remembered_ the incantation - maybe it was the jolt of pain or the rising frustration, but he suddenly _knew_ it.

He immediately moved back three steps and gripped his wand tightly, deciding to use a similar wand movement to _Portaberto_ in hopes that it would work. He thrust his wand forward with two downwards jabs and shouting the ancient spell that was once used by warlocks and wizards of old to bring terror upon their enemies during war sieges:

" _Aftah-ya samsam!"_

The door blasted off its hinges, and slammed to the ground with a thundering boom, having been weakened significantly by the dozens of spells used against it. The impact, however, raised a lot of dust on the other side of the doorway.

Harry jumped, startled, and began to look around at the walls, afraid that the entire passageway would crumble down on him. When nothing broke, and he was satisfied with the structural integrity of the walls, he re-lit his way with a soft " _Lumos_ " and continued into the next chamber that the missing door had just created access to.

Harry gingerly stepped into the antechamber. He had known that the spell would blast the door off its hinges, but he still wasn't prepared for the noise it had produced. The antechamber was a relatively open room which served as the final resting place of one Jacob Grimm. It was a well-lit chamber, and the torches in this room seemed to be lighted by magic, as they were still burning after all these years. They bathed the entire room in bright red light, and the shadows from their sconces danced somberly across the walls as though willed by magic itself. A fresh blast of air hit Harry in the back, and he stumbled further into the chamber, almost tumbling onto the main centrepiece.

In the centre of the room laid a large marble table, smooth and polished. Much like the rest of the tomb, it lacked a certain flair and delicacy he had come to expect from pure-blooded wizards. The table seemed very sturdy and looked to be carved out of one single block, though it was void of any intricate carvings. All in all, the room seemed unimportant, but Harry could feel the magic in the air, and that alone drew him in.

Upon the table lay a certain form, its entire figure draped in satin and cloth of a bright purple, brightly contrasting against the pale marble and grey stones of the chamber.

'Jacob,' Harry thought, eyes wide. He was very much curious about what the body looked like now, after years, and if it had been preserved with magic or not. A wizard's after-death rituals weren't common knowledge - they varied heavily according to what the wizard in question preferred - it seemed as though Jacob Grimm wasn't very fond of them though, which was probably why the antechamber was rather lacklustre at first glance.

"It must have been in his will," Harry thought. His brother had died before him, and he didn't have a family to take care of these things, so he must have requested it in his will. Harry wondered if the Goblins had taken care of it.

He kept his hands to himself, however. He would be pilfering the Grimm's grave enough today, even without touching the man's corpse. With that morbid thought in his head, he took a step forward and bowed deeply, the lowest he could - not at all different from what he would do when introduced to a person of great respect. He took out one of his many quills from his pouch and removed the white feather from it, taking care to place it at the feet of the table. He took another steep bow, feeling that this was better than just walking in without acknowledging at all what this room meant.

He took another step forward and stood next to the foot of the marble table, before reciting his apologies in very mangled German.

"Es tut mir leid, dass ich Ihren Schlaf gestört habe."

Cringing slightly, he hoped that he had pronounced the words correctly and that any magic present would account for his reluctance to do this when deciding his fate. With a subsequent quick nod of his head - and a swift muttered "Rest in peace," in English - he hastily walked over towards the back of the room, where another passageway led deeper into the tomb.

It took him several dozen feet before he reached what seemed to be the main room. No door barred his way, for which he was grateful, if not worried. A long gaze around the room led him to believe that this was were Jacob Grimm had deposited half of his life's accomplishments, the other half being left at his brother's grave. There were mountains of gold, silver and bronze coins scattered all across the room, which, similarly to the antechamber, was bathed in a cold red light. Heaps of books and ancient tomes were placed around and inside the bookshelves on the left, and piles of scrolls and jars lined up on the long wooden table to the right. At the back, Harry could see stands of gleaming weapons, most likely charmed to never rust or dirty.

Harry took a step towards the middle of the room which beheld a shining bronze pedestal. Upon this pedestal lay a thick, black tome. He took several hesitant steps forward, enthralled by the wonder and _magic_ he felt in this room. He reached out a hand towards the book at first, but caught himself, pulling his hand back with a jerk, realising that it would most definitely be warded heavily.

Instead, Harry simply stood on the tips of his toes in an attempt to confirm that the black book was indeed the thing he was looking for and was happy to see that his effort had not been in vain. He studied the cover from afar, trying to discern if there was anything he could do to safeguard himself against the inevitable traps laid out by the younger Grimm.

An idea sprung into his head. He looked around the pedestal and the floor nearby, searching for the possible solution to his current problem. It wasn't likely, but Harry had a feeling that there must have been a way to disable the traps. Someone had to have come and left all of _this_ here, surely?

He scoured the nearby stones, reaching the walls of the chamber. Careful not to touch any of the books, gold or weapons, he searched for anything. Something had to be powering the wards that were obviously there.

The tomb would have to be self-sufficient. It didn't look like the magic for the wards came from a distant point off as the magic of the forest tended to interfere with those kinds of things, and there weren't any direct pathways leading here.

Drawing magic from the surrounding area was a possibility, but the fact that the tomb was so deep underground made it very difficult to get anything from the forest, and the stone wasn't naturally full of magic. It was rather neutral, in most cases.

Thus, there had to be some sort of _help_ , which would allow for greater ease in powering the wards. Harry considered the Wiggentree but decided against it. It too was probably too far off for the runes here, no matter how much magic it must inherently have.

That left a couple of options, but Harry's mind wandered to one: Runes. There were runes lining the walls on his descent, so it made sense that they would consider that motif in this room - and not simply for aesthetics, either.

Harry continued his search for the possibly engraved runes throughout the room, sometimes very tempted to touch a certain book or piece of jewellery. He walked a full circle, stopping again in front of the bronze pedestal. Harry hesitated for a moment but decided to have a closer look at the pedestal itself. Something seemed _off_ about it, but he couldn't keep his eyes on it for long without them drifting off someplace else.

Eventually, he realised that it must have been similar magic to the one Ollivander had in his office - though without causing a headache, of course. He had an idea but didn't know if it would work. It was entirely possible that they had thought of this, but he decided to give it a try anyway. He pulled his head in the opposite direction of the pedestal, towards the doorway he came through. Reaching with his right hand behind his back and towards the tattered book, he inched closer to the bronze holder, before his hand came into contact with the base. With his other hand, he reached down towards the hem of his robes and scraped off a large chunk of mud.

Quickly switching his position so that his left hand was reaching towards the pedestal, he steadied himself with his right. He rubbed his muddied hand over the base, searching for the runic circle that was bound to be engraved there.

Up, down, left, right. He tilted himself slightly so that his hand was _directly_ in what he assumed was the middle of the base, and found it. It was very small, considerably small, and very detailed. Harry was doubtful at first but decided that it was probably this small to help the Notice-Me-Not Charm work in the first place. With the rest of his mud-caked fingers, he smeared the grime into the engraving of the runes, hoping that his gamble would pay off and that this would count as _disturbing the runic structure_.

Once the last of his fingers had covered the middle of the pedestal, he crouched back and stood up, admiring his handiwork. Then with his eyes wide, he nearly jumped in excitement. _He could focus on the pedestal._ Which meant that the wards had been successfully disturbed.

Wiping his fingers onto his robes, he made sure they were perfectly clean. More confident than he had been when he entered, he reached up towards the black book on the pedestal. As his fingers neared the tome, he took two steps forward...

A wave of magic came _crashing_ down onto him. Harry cried out in pain. He felt something wet drip down his chin and reached up to wipe it away. His fingers were now smeared with something other than mud. Harry saw red. Blood. His blood. He gasped for air. His lungs felt as though they were on fire. He could hardly breathe due to the amount of pressure being exerted on every pinpoint of his body and his knees buckled.

He felt something surge inside him, and he cried out in stubborn determination, reaching further despite the pain, and snatched the book from the pedestal, collapsing on the floor in the process.

The wave of magic stopped, and Harry struggled to his feet. Dazed, he looked around the room and tried to move, but stumbled every time he attempted a step. Scrunching his nose up, he took a look around the room, noticing that some of the times had lost a certain gleam - as though the magic had left them. Had his disruption of the runic array really worked?

Harry walked over towards the nearest table and grabbed it for support, taking deep gulps of breath until his lungs stopped burning and he could actually breathe without pain. Rubbing his nose in irritation, he moved throughout the room, carefully picking out anything that looked as though it might help his parents with his scar.

Randolph _had_ said that the Grimm's were experts on the occult, and esteemed Magizoologists - they had to have something on a Horcrux, right? With that in mind, Harry hurried over towards the bookshelves, and although he couldn't very well read - or reach, for that matter - some of the books, he took out a few that appeared to be related to Dark Magic - or at least very old, since those things tended to go hand in hand.

After grabbing a large collection of tomes and managing to fit them inside his enlarged pouch, his eyes moved over towards the table across the room filled with gold trinkets and ancient-looking artefacts, and then to the weapon collection to his right. He lightly decided that some things wouldn't be missed - there was plenty here, after all. It wouldn't hurt to take a few gold coins, right? That way he could help pay for any other expenses. He shuddered to think of the costs of all the Healer appointments. There must've been hundreds of them.

He walked over to rack and singled out a silver-looking horn, and a very sharp ornate dagger, which he held gingerly as he deposited into his pouch. He took a few scoops of gold coins, along with a necklace and a matching ring, knowing that his parents would appreciate it. He spotted an eldritch looking hourglass and scooped that up as well - noting that it had _black_ sand, for some reason.

Feeling lighter by the minute, he walked towards the entrance of the room, and up to the pedestal. He stood there for a minute more, pensive, then reached into his own pockets and brought out a piece of scrap parchment and his other quill.

Quickly, he wrote a simple note on the piece of parchment and left it sitting on the pedestal, in place of the ancient tome.

> _I only took a few things - they will be put to good use though - I do hope that you aren't too upset - I'll return them if I ever get the chance._
> 
> _H.P._

Walking past through the passageway he had come from, he stepped aside from the veiled corpse of Jacob Grimm and was almost over the fallen door before he stopped, a blank expression on his face.

He turned around and bowed steeply once more. He then left the chamber as quickly as possible could before the goodwill (he imagined, for it must have been, to let him do what he just did) of the spirit of Jacob Grimm waned. Lighting his wand with _Lumos_ , his feet clamoured against the stone of the tomb.

He then sprinted up the twirling steps and soon reached the marble entrance, which was still open, much to his relief.

With a step outside, he was greeted with the hum of the forest and a breath of fresh air. Leaning against the Wiggentree, he grasped his wand in his other hand and breathed out a "thank you," towards the marble entrance. It might've been his imagination, but the Wiggentree bark seemed to grow even warmer, and the wind appeared to give a little whistle.

The marble stone rewove itself before his eyes, and returned to its previous solid-state, displaying the markings of Jacob Grimm.

With a sigh and a few brushes of his wand, the wind blew the leaves back over the stone, looking very much exactly how he had found it.

Collecting himself, he passed by the Bowtruckles, who was, oddly, still enjoying the weirdly still full jar of woodlice.

"Must be slow eaters," Harry mused, taking one final look at the clearing. His heart swelled with something, he didn't quite know what, but he knew that this would likely be the last time he laid eyes on this clearing.

Feeling something very profound settle on his shoulders, he walked away from the clearing. Part of him wanted to make markings on the trees so that he could follow them one day in the future, but in the end, he decided against it. If he ever found a need to return to the clearing, he would trust in the forest to guide him, just as he trusted the forest to show him the way back towards his family.

_With a small smile quirking his lips,_

_With a small spring in his step,_

_With a small sigh with his breath,_

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Aftah-ya samsam is supposed to mean 'Open Sesame'. I translated it into Arabic, and then anglicized the translation, and they came out as Aftah ya samsam, and then I joined the 'Aftah' and 'ya' together, resulting in the spell as you see it written.
> 
> I'm not 100% sure on the accuracy of it, so if you do know Arabic/English, do tell me if it's wrong. My reason for doing this is purely because the anglicisation of Arabic - in this case - reads more like a spell than 'open sesame', which sounds kinda lame for what I hand in mind (blowing down doors).
> 
> The same goes for my German - if it's wrong, please let me know! I strive for accuracy, even if I fall short sometimes.


	7. Bright Lights, City Lights

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER SEVEN: BRIGHT LIGHTS, CITY LIGHTS**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership. 

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.** **  
**

* * *

**Much love to everyone who’s been reviewing! Thank you all! Cheers!**

_—AvydReedr_

* * *

Rain poured heavily onto the tarmac, forming small puddles where the cement was uneven. It sprinkled against the foggy windowpane, and Harry cursed. With his inside voice, of course. It wouldn’t do to have his mother _s_ _courgify_ his mouth again...

He had always hated the rain, he guessed. Not because he minded getting wet, or because it was actually _raining_. He didn’t mind those things at all, in all honesty. The pitter-patter of the water droplets was soothing, and there had been fun times spent in the drizzle, running around and pretending he was somewhere else - someone else. A pirate sailing west during a thunderstorm, perhaps. Or maybe a night riding through the northern highlands off to save a princess. 

Harry sighed and rubbed his thumb against the misty window, drawing a tree. More often than not, rain meant that everything was closed and that he wasn’t allowed out of the house, lest he returns with muddy shoes. It was rather strange, now that he thought about it. Surely mud was taken care of by cleaning charms? 

Harry rubbed the tree with the palm of his hand. It looked like it was on fire now. He looked around wistfully at the rest of the room. The problem was that rain days meant staying at home, and staying at home meant having to find something to do. After eight years of growing up in Tutshill, he had exhausted every possible alternative to entertainment to be found around the house. Most of the books he’d been given were already read, the toys were no longer fun, especially with no one to share them with. No one was allowed over, and he couldn’t go anywhere, either. His parents didn’t really spend that much time with him, even if they were always _there_. They always had something to do: If it wasn’t working, it was regarding his scar. 

The rain always brought back solitude, he guessed. Maybe that was what he hated. And boredom of course. They went hand in hand.

“Harry! Have you showered yet?” came his mother’s muffled call.

“No, Mum!” he called back, before lifting himself off the padded pillow he had laid against for the last few hours and heading off towards the bathroom. The rain always seemed to bore down on his mood. Maybe a shower would fix him up. 

He stepped into the shower after disrobing and let the water run over his head and down his back. He felt the throb of the water and imagined that he was out in the street, sprinting down the sidewalk, laughing his head off while his mother and father chased him, both drenched and with large smiles on their faces.

After scrubbing himself spotless, he left the bathroom smelling of mint and walked towards the middle of his adjunct hotel room. There was a door near the corner that led towards his parents’ dormitory, but that was closed. Harry ignored the dripping on the carpet and made his way towards the birch wardrobe before pausing.

“Mum! Mug or Wiz?” he called out. He wanted to make sure: it wouldn’t do to go to a wizarding establishment dressed like a muggle. Or the other way around, he reasoned.

“Muggle, Harry. Muggle.” came the reply.

Nodding to himself, he picked out a clean and simple muggle outfit. He knew he didn’t have a knack for clothes but figured that watching the muggle kids in his old school had given him a better sense of dress than either of his parents could manage. He knew how to dress in wizarding clothes too, but that was harder to pull off here in Berlin - it wasn’t the main magical hub in Germany, and there weren’t many places where robes could pass as normal. 

Looking back, they had been staying in Berlin for almost a week now, though Harry wasn’t exactly sure why. It was probably because of the location: it was certainly easier to get around Germany, which would help with the search for information on Horcruxes. 

Harry shivered involuntarily, though if it was because of the thought of another _soul_ in his body or his damp hair, he couldn’t tell. 

The door to his right opened suddenly, and Harry looked up from the corner of the bed where he was sitting down with a raised eyebrow. It was his mother. 

“Are you ready yet? If not, hurry up. We have to be out of here…” she cast a _Tempus_ and frowned. “In ten minutes. Will, are you sure it’s at seven?”

There was a muted “Yes, honey,” from the other room, and Harry’s eyes flicked towards his mother’s neck. His face flinched, and a bitter feeling arose in his throat.

He looked at the necklace he had ‘retrieved’ from the Grimm’s tomb. A sparkling green and black ornamented socket held a small, clear crystal, and it laced around the neck with a thin black chain. It wasn’t overly large or extravagant in any way, but he had no doubt that it was very expensive. 

His parents didn’t seem to think so, though: they were under the impression that he had bought it in Diagon Alley. Harry didn’t feel the need to mention otherwise. It was a gift, regardless. 

Harry tugged on a shirt and frowned as his mother made to turn away, and his mind trailed to the day he had returned from the Black Forest - for the second time. In foolish hopes that it would somehow dissuade his mother from unleashing all parental hell on him for breaking a very strict rule of not wandering off without supervision, he had given her the necklace, together with smiles and hugs and several “I love you, Mum”. His father had gotten a similar present, although it had been a silver ring with a canine (or was it lupine?) head on it.

He finished getting dressed and made his way through the door. Spotting his father sliding on the silver ring - and casually, at that! - he scowled and turned around towards the main door to wait. 

He had returned from the forest quite dirty, and after a quick trip to his room to unload everything, he had found his parents and given them the necklace and the ring as presents. Not for any particular reason, though... 

His parents - in a suspiciously Slytherin manner - had accepted the gifts with smiles and hugs, patting him on the back and telling him what a wonderful son he was. Then, they had told him to hurry and get changed for tea lest he missed it. Harry shook his head and laughed silently. What a fool he had been. 

He had gotten comfortable and begun to feel quite safe about the entire ordeal: He had eaten a few scones, drunken an entire cup of tea, and cosied up next to the fireplace before his parents finally struck.

They took away his wand and the promise of lessons, and managed to look angry about it too! Something about being disappointed, but Harry was hardly listening at that point. He’d curled up in the chair in distaste. Whatever lesson his parents were trying to teach him about responsibility, he’d soon forgotten in exchange for another. ‘ _Never gift for free_. _Always demand something in return_.’

After that, Harry spent the entire next few days with an alarmingly good scowl on his face. 

Now, he guarded all of his possessions with frightening intensity, never letting them out of his sight, or out of his pouch, for more than a couple of minutes at a time. 

And if he had ever thought about showing his parents the dagger or the horn or anything else, he didn’t dare to now. It would just lead to even more questions, and he would be in even deeper trouble than before. 

At least his parents didn’t know about the tomb. Or did they? Probably not, Harry reasoned. Only that he had gone into the forest. But he still didn’t know how they did it. Probably a bloody tracking charm. Or maybe his robes had been dirty? He shrugged.

‘At least they let me keep my pouch,’ Harry thought ruefully, turning around as his father slipped into black shoes and grabbed his wand. 

After much-continued fussing, the Portwoods then slipped out of the room and walked down the stairs, preferring the wooden flights instead of the muggle ‘elvenator’ or whatever it was. 

They made their way past the front desk, and Harry nodded to the muggle woman sitting there, but she didn’t return his greeting. Rude. 

Walking out into the rain, his father made a discreet - and playful - offer to Alicia, raising his wand and gripping it with all his fingers.

“May I cast a ‘Brella Charm, my lady?” he said in a strange voice, leaning in and kissing his wife’s knuckles. Harry made a face at the display.

Alicia looked slightly pompous at the words, as though she might’ve denied the request just to spite him. Her smile wiped it away, though.

“You may.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the odd exchange. His parents were being romantic again. Great. He stuck out his tongue to show them how he felt about it and walked in front of them, pointedly staying out of reach of William’s Brella Charm, and getting soaked for his efforts.

They walked for a little while more, with Harry in the lead, although he would constantly turn around and look at his father for directions, who would then refer to his mother, who seemed to be in good cheer despite the weather and the constant badgering. 

Soon, they turned a corner, and William had to pull Harry over. 

“We’re going to a Muggle restaurant today, remember? No talking of magic, understand?”

“Yes father,” Harry answered with a sullen look towards what appeared to be a particularly large puddle. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, head on inside. We’ll be right behind you.”

Knowing that his parents wanted to go ‘kissing in the rain’, Harry sauntered off towards the entrance and was about to grab the handle when his stomach churned. Apprehensive, he looked back at his mother for support, only to see her and William kissing passionately over by a lamppost. 

Harry averted his eyes just as a madly gleeful thought sprang through his head.

He pinched his nose and called out in a nasal tone, trying his best to sound like an irritated old woman. In imitation of what he’d heard Randolph say when he’d caught the couple kissing, he called:

“Bleurgh. Get a closet, you two!”

Alicia had quickly separated from her husband and was now looking around alarmingly while his father had a dejected look on his face. With an evil cackle, Harry ducked his head and darted into the restaurant, banging his shin on the steps while he was at it. 

“ **OW**! Bugger!”

“Harry! Language!”

* * *

Harry sat at the edge of his parents’ bed, wistfully staring at the bedside lamp. It was the end of the day, and he was feeling rather tired after hopping all around Berlin after lunch. His father was in front of him, organizing his belongings with his head stuck in the wardrobe. His mother was in the shower. 

Feeling optimistic, Harry piped up from his artificial light-soaking. “When can I start classes again, dad?”

William leaned back, his face coming into view. There was a stern look in his eyes, but it softened somewhat at the equally determined gaze Harry had levelled at him. This question had become almost nightly, and the young boy wasn’t ready to back down.

Tonight, however, his father refrained from answering with a closed dismissal and a reminder that the decision to stop his lessons had been final. Tonight, he actually threw a question back at Harry, one that caught him rather off-guard. 

“And why should we do that?” he pressed, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve proven that we can’t trust you with a wand. So why should we continue with lessons?” He had now fully removed himself from the wardrobe and was looking expectantly at his son. 

Harry bit his lip in thought. He briefly considered explaining _why_ he’d gone out to the forest but discarded that thought after the notion that he’d have to tell the truth about his findings in the tomb. He had a bad feeling about telling his parents that he’d found the grave of Jacob Grimm. He could almost feel his wand jolting in accord, even though he didn’t have it on him right now. He had to settle for the alternative, then. A compromise. 

“What if I only continue the theory lessons?” he asked, innocently. “And those without spellcasting? You know...Herbology, Creatures and Potions? I promise I won’t touch my wand, either. Not until I’m ready to use it.” At his father’s considering look, his hopes soared.

After a moment of thought, William gave a heavy sigh, as though he had just signed for bankruptcy, and rubbed his temple with his index finger and his thumb. It was probably due to some headache, Harry reasoned. Though he couldn’t imagine why. Then his father waved him off to bed. 

“Go to sleep, Harry. I’ll have to think about it, and your mother will want to talk about it, too. No promises, though.” 

Harry ignored the chance that the attempt might fall through, choosing instead to walk back towards his room with an elated look - and wide grin - on his face. A quick look through the window confirmed that it was still raining, but the thought left his mind soon thereafter. He’d be learning magic again! 

He gave a large whoop and pumped the air with his fist, feeling very much like a pirate captain or a shining knight. He changed and slid into his bed, feeling very content with himself as the giddy feeling of warmth spread throughout his body. 

With a sigh, he cocooned himself in his blankets and fell asleep to the lulling pitter-patter of the rain. 

* * *

Harry stood in front of the stone bust with a confused expression. 

“Mum, what’s a Dark Lady? Is she like the wife of a Dark Lord?”

“I should hope not!” his mother harrumphed, looking strangely disgruntled, as though someone had just offended her. 

“While that does make sense in theory, a Dark Lord is usually not a Noble Lord, and therefore the subsequent terms of lordship do not apply to them,” she amended, giving her son a pointed look which seemed to convince him to pay better attention. 

“They are granted the - social - title of Lord due to certain circumstances, which in the case of Dark Lords, are more often than not viewed as horrible by the wizarding world. In general, you could say a wizard is named a Dark Lord for having made significant advancements in that particular area of magic or pushing a certain political agenda that favours practitioners of Dark Magic.”

She paused, running her hands through his hair. “While some wizards like Emeric the Evil have pushed the boundaries of morals and magic both, others like Grindelwald and You-Know-Who gained their titles through a combination of terror, politics, and the danger they pose to functioning society. Not to say that either is less of a Dark Lord - both have made their mark on wizarding history, for better or for worse.”

Harry made a face at the last statement. “How can a Dark Lord make something better?” It didn’t seem reasonable at all in his mind, and the thought was justified, considering the past two decades Britain had been through. 

His mother hummed in thought. “I think there is one case that comes in mind. The Dark Lord Humball was responsible for hundreds of horrific abductions and was accused of torturing his victims - which turned out to be true. Upon death, however, the Ministry of Greater Iberia found that he had been using the bodies for research - and subsequently had developed a cure for some obscure magical disease transmitted by tapeworms in the Nile River. The cure was then mass-produced, and it has become a household potion in the regions close to the Nile River. It saves over a hundred lives each year.”

Harry frowned in thought. “So, Dark Magic isn’t evil?”

His mother seemed to consider this for a while. “No, I wouldn’t say so. Dark Magic is an umbrella term, and it defines different types of magic in different situations. The most common one, though, is the notion that Dark Magic is focused on inflicting pain on another, or requires pain to be successful. Other attempts at specifying it states that Dark Magic requires a higher toll than Light Magic to be used - whether it be an external sacrifice or damage to your own being. I find that one to be the most eloquent way of viewing things, but you will find others who disagree. Take this example - if I were to use _Wingardium Leviosa_ to raise you high in the air, and then drop you - what is the difference between that and a Dark Spell like the Killing Curse?”

Harry didn’t have an answer to that. 

“There are differences, of course. But you don’t see the Levitation Charm being hailed as Dark, do you? That’s because it wasn’t designed with that _intention_ in mind. The Killing Curse was - this thinking follows the ‘common’ notion that Dark Magic seeks to cause harm. It is also reflected in the other theory - the Killing Curse is said to cause heavy damage to the caster’s soul when successful, while the Levitation Charm does not. Another difference between Light and Dark Magic.”

Harry tried to write down everything she had pointed out, but it was slowly becoming too much for the eight-year-old, so he had to take a few minutes before he continued down his pre-written list of questions. 

“Is there anything worse than Dark Magic, Mum?”

She stopped running her hand through his head. “And why would you want to know that, young man?” She looked down at him over her nose, her eyes alight in mock anger, while her smile became much more foreboding. 

Harry stammered, and she let go of her stern look, laughing lightly instead, much to his chagrin.

“It’s called Black Magic, Harry, both words capitalized,” she noted, looking down at his notes. “Very few spells or rituals fall under that category though, and the only reason no-one publicly advocates for its use is because that kind of magic is the vilest and disgusting thing wizardkind has ever come up with. It has no possible _good_ uses, and unlike Dark Magic - it is **completely** selfish.” Alicia paused to point out a spelling mistake in his writing before continuing, as though listing off a bulleted list. “You wouldn’t be far from the truth in saying that Black Magic is evil.”

She then gave a long, hard look towards her son. “However, it doesn’t matter what I or anyone else thinks. The important thing is that you have to live and learn through your own experiences, Harry. Only then can you truly think for yourself…”

Harry squirmed, but she continued with her lesson, unfettered. “Magic can be as hard as stone, and as fluid as water. In a raging current, it’s impossible to see one, and you can’t touch the other without the risk of falling through.” 

“Is that a quote, Mum?”

“Indeed.” Alicia gazed off into the distance, and seemingly grew older by the minute. “Come now, Harry - we have much more of the museum to see - this does count as lesson time, you know. Don’t get sidetracked. Now, look here,” she said, pointing at a portrait in front of them.

“This was the Dark Lady Viutrianna. She was notorious for her unethical experiments. She wasn’t so much a proper Dark Lady as a huge international outlaw and thief that dabbled in unethical breeding - until one of her ‘experiments’ got loose and claimed over a thousand lives - after that, she was quickly named a Dark Lady by four different countries - Germany, Britain, Greater Iberia and Italy. She was on the run after that. Eventually, they caught her holed up in some corner down in Lecco...”

* * *

“I thought wands were the only things wizards used,” Harry commented as they passed by the corridor on magical foci.

“Not at all,” his mother said with an unreadable expression. “Would you like to take a look, Harry?” She pointed down the corridor.

“I suppose we can...right?”

Alicia hummed her approval; they set off down the short corridor towards the exhibit at the back before stopping in front of a bronze plaque. 

“What do you know about magical foci, Harry?”

Harry hesitated. What did he know? He hadn’t read much at all on the topic - it rarely showed up in his books, and only briefly during _A History of Magic_ or _Magical Theory_. He did know a couple of general points, though. 

“They’ve been around for over one thousand years, and wands are the most widespread foci in the modern age?”

“Correct on both accounts.”

There was a pause before Harry asked his first question, as he was leaning over a glass casing and a variety of stones in them. 

“Why do modern wizards only use wands, Mum?”

Alicia sighed, setting her purse down on a nearby bench and sitting down slowly. She took a long hard look at her son, who was still looking over the exhibit. 

“Why do you think that?”

Harry turned around, brow furrowed. “Think about what?”

“Why do you think modern wizards only use wands?”

“Well, my books said that wands were the most widespread foci in the modern age, so I assumed…” Harry frowned as the words left his mouth. “Oh, I see.”

Alicia smiled slightly. “Ask another question, then.”

“What kind of foci exist, Mum?”

“Oh, I suppose there are many, and undoubtedly I do not know all of them. Some, you will find, are relatively common, and others are either strictly regulated or fell into disuse.”

“Could you give me some examples?”

Alicia patted the bench next to her. Harry walked over and sat down, leaning into his mother and closing his eyes as she ran her hand through his hair. 

“There is the wand, which is the most widely-known and well-used focus in modern time, if not history. There are staves and sceptres. Rings can be used as well, I suppose. Any kind of jewellery, for that matter. Some swords double as magical foci, too. I’m sure there are countless others that I’m forgetting.”

“What’s the difference between a staff and a sceptre?”

“I think it’s the way they hold their cores, but I’m not sure. I assume that the staff - or stave - is somewhat like a wand in terms of its construction - a certain type of wood and then a core inside of it, hidden and infused. Sceptres, from what I know, display the core openly, and more often than not it is a stone or jewel. I think they gather magic differently, too,” Alicia smiled and dropped her hand to Harry’s side. He pouted petulantly but leaned in closer, content to be spending time with his mother.

“You said they gather magic differently. What does that mean?”

“Oh, dear. I don’t _know_ the answer to that. Only the makers might. But we do know that they _do_ .” She paused for a minute. “Or rather, we don’t know _how_ they do, but we know the different _ways_ they do.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t. From what I know, wands are more apt to the _conservation_ of magic, and it is why they are more widely used than other foci. It is why they have been the most widely-used foci in centuries. Others, such as the staff or the ring, don’t function exactly as the wand does, and either require much more magic to properly use or aren’t as subtle as a wand. It’s the reason only the most powerful - or mad - wizards and witches carry anything other than a wand.”

“Oh, I see.” Harry didn’t see it. “But why _wands_?”

“You’ll have to ask the wandmakers, Harry. And I doubt they’ll give you a straight answer - the secrets of wandlore are exactly that - secrets. Guarded fiercely by those who know them, and regulated _heavily_ by the governments they work under. And not only wands, either. The creation of magical foci is something that the ICW takes very seriously.”

“If I wanted to, could I make a focus of my own?” In enthusiasm alone, he looked to be up to the challenge. 

A smile tugged at the corner of Alicia’s lips. “I have no doubt that you could, dear. Now, would you be allowed to use it? That is a grey area at best, in the law. Selling it? Very unlikely, unless you want to go through the countless legal hoops to do so.” She seemed to consider something for a moment, tilting her head as if listening to a voice. “Although, it differs slightly from country to country, and then only between the ICW-aligned. Those outside the ICW enforce their own regulations.”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking crestfallen. “Bugger.”

“Language, Harry,” Alicia said softly.

“Sorry.”

Alicia resumed running her hand through his hair while idly scratching him behind his ear, and continued her lecture unprompted. After a while, Harry continued asking questions, endless that they were.

“How do you know you’re powerful enough to use a staff?” Harry said, looking up at his mother with a grin. 

“You can cast a Levitation Charm without passing out,” she answered in a deadpan tone. Harry’s grin faltered. 

“Mum, I’m being serious.”

“Mmm. And what makes you think I’m not?”

He didn’t know how to answer that, so Alicia spared him the trouble and answered it again, this time with more specifics. 

“Well, there are a couple of ways to let you know if you’re able to use a staff, but none of them has anything to do with _power_ . Instead, it’s all about _control_. You see, when casting a spell with a wand, it conserves your magic for you, and allows for a more or less consistent amount of magic to be pushed through at all time. The staff amplifies your magic instead of controlling it. This means that the wizard has to do all of the controlling, instead. There are ways to determine your magical ability, which does factor in control, but also many other things.”

“One example is the Niel-Parker Test. It’s independent, but people have been using it for years, and it’s reliable. I’ve taken it twice - the other was the mandatory BMAT as soon as I hit my age of majority. It’s around three days of testing, and they factor in hundreds of aspects of your magic.”

Harry was intrigued, to say the least. He let it show. “What score did you get? What kinds of tests are they? Do you know everyone else’s scores?”

Alicia smiled. “1310 on the Niel-Parker, and EE-9 on the BMAT. This was ages ago - around the time I left Hogwarts, maybe a year later for the second Niel-Parker. Although, I’d like to think I’d get better scores if I re-did the tests now.” 

“I’m under oath not to tell you what kind of tests they gave us specifically, but I can say a few things. They test you for wandless magic,” Harry’s eyes went wide. “They test your magic under Dementor influence, your casting speed, and there are a couple of written exams, too - those were probably some of the harder parts for me, I think. It’s hard to remember after ten years.” 

“Oh, and no, Harry. I don’t know everyone’s scores. I do know your father got 1290 on the Niel-Parker, but an O-2 on the BMAT. Honestly, I think the BMAT’s a load of rubbish because it’s almost purely knowledge-based. He could’ve studied for hours before taking it, which should be counted as cheating. Oh, and it's rumoured that Albus Dumbledore - yes, _that_ Albus Dumbledore, has a score of over _ten thousand_ on the Niel-Parker.” 

Harry’s grin grew at the thought. 

* * *

Miles away, one ancient white-bearded Headmaster sneezed extraordinary loudly and succeeded in dropping the Sherbert Lemon he was contemplating. 

“Oh, dear. That was my last one, too. I’ll have to order more now, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said almost mournfully, staring at the yellow treat on his floor with undisguised sadness.

“Best be off then,” he sighed, leaning over his desk to write a notice to Professor McGonagall informing her that he would be away for important business. 

* * *

Harry leaned against the window of his hotel room, leafing through the pages of _Dragonology: A Complete Guide_ by Dimitri Racô with unfiltered interest. His parents had left him at home that day, with a note saying that they’d be out for the entire day and that there was frozen dinner in the minifridge, with instructions to heat it up in the microwave when he was hungry. 

He grabbed his third slice of cheese flat-pie and carefully managed to take a bite without letting the oil spill onto the pages of his book. He didn’t know if the volume was bewitched properly, so he was hesitant to touch it with his greasy fingers. He had placed it in between his legs and was currently flipping through it with his grease-free right hand. 

They’d been in Berlin for almost two weeks now, and his parents had begun to pick up the search for information on Horcruxes with the same enthusiasm again. During the hours that they were out, Harry would usually spend the time waiting by the window, where he could either curl up with a book in hand or watch the people below scuttle about their day. 

His mother and father had, on their ‘free days’, taken to exploring the city, and he tagged along most of the time. Museums, both Magical and Muggle, were a must for his mother, although his father wanted to visit all the best food spots instead. Harry wasn’t partial to either one and so the Portwoods alternated destinations when on outings.

Harry sighed and went over the minute print that layered the book he was reading. It was a paragraph on draconic terminology - apparently, what most ignorant wizards referred to as a _dragon_ had several different subspecies, and all had their own names and identifying attribute.

> _There are three main subspecies in the Draconic Family, and all others are either found through breeding or years and years of evolution. These are the Dragon, recognisable by its four powerful legs, heavy and large scales, and two additional wings. The dragon has a relatively short body and carries relation to the Fae. The Wyrm carries none of the above features; it has no limbs, no wings, and its scales, while still hard and spell-resistant, are smaller. The Wyrm is proven to be related to the Sea Serpent and the legendary Quetzalcoatl, which was declared extinct in 1934. It is suspected, but unknown that the Wyrm carries some familiarity towards the True Basilisk, though this also applies to all members of the Draconic Family. Lastly, we have the Drake - usually smaller than the Dragon, it does have four sturdy legs, but no wings. Usually, of a lighter colouration, it also lacks the ability to breathe fire, though some species are renown for their poison. They carry ties to the famed Hydra, native to Greece, and the Kirin; which was long thought extinct until 1953 when Marcus Goldberg stumbled upon a stray herd. They have since been under watchful care, and are returning to previous numbers. Many other examples of the Draconic Family include the Wyvern (and thus the Cockatrice), the Lindwurm (and its cousin the Salamander), the Lung-dragon and the rare hybrid the Amphithere - which the breeding of was outlawed in 1840 by Britain, Germany, Albania and France in a bid against the then Dark Lord Sansa._

Harry closed the book with a snap and took a deep breath of exasperation. Why did everything good become ruined by Dark Lords? Why were people so ban-happy? With a sigh, he put the book down and shovelled the rest of the flat-pie into his mouth, keeping one eye on the street below in case he spotted his parents.

To his dismay, nothing interesting happened. There was the odd couple entering the Italian restaurant, and a motorcycle zoomed past the street unhinged. The only odd thing consisted of a middle-aged blond couple walking hastily out of the old decrepit building, Number Two. They were wearing very expensive clothes, Harry realised - and carrying something covered by a cloth. After a while, they slowed down to almost a strut and took a left. Harry didn’t see them after that. 

‘Weird,’ he thought. ‘Number Two’s been abandoned for years, according to the hotel lady.’ 

Harry set down _Dragonology: A Complete Guide_ , picking up instead a new copy of _Most Macabre Monsters_ , but something seemed off about the couple and the old house. 

‘It’s probably nothing,’ he assured himself, trying to focus instead on the depiction between a Greek Basilisk, and the European hybrid; both were related to the cockatrice, and much more dangerous. 

* * *

Harry peered through the dirty window into the small corner store. He rubbed his sleeve on the windowpane in an attempt to clean it, but nothing came of it, and so he had to crane his neck to get a clear view of the dimly lit shop inside. 

“Is this it?” he asked his father.

“Yes,” William said, and strode into the shop, opening the door as a small bell-chime rang through the air. Above the door on a weary sign lay the words _Apherd’s Pawn Shop for the Curious_ displayed in a spindly silver lettering. Harry made to follow his mother, and together they entered the dingy store. His father pointed towards a small chair next to a bookshelf towards the right, and Harry made his way over to sit down and stay out of sight. 

His parents had warned him beforehand to not touch anything lest he breaks it, but he reasoned that he could be careful enough with books, so he sat down on the rickety chair and pulled a slim book out of the shelf. It was certainly bewitched with the Thief’s Curse, so Harry made sure not to read too far in, changing the tome in question every so often for a new one, never getting more than a dozen pages in. He learnt of some rather questionable things, but nothing too Dark. _Those_ books were probably kept under lock-and-key, with them being illegal and everything. 

After flipping through several books, he had laid his hand on a slim mauve novel called _The Fair Maiden’s Retreat_ and was about to start reading when he was interrupted by a sweet, sing-song voice. 

“Hello there, sir. Would you be interested in buying some sweets?”

Harry looked up from what was slowly becoming a raunchy witches’ novel and stared into the face of a young pale woman. His breath hitched, and the book loosened in his grasp, falling onto the floor softly.

The woman laughed lightly, her eyes twinkling with radiant beauty. She leaned in close, her soft black hair falling loosely around her shoulder. She brushed it aside with a finger and knelt down, coming eye level with him. Harry could smell her breath. It was unnaturally minty.

“Sir?” She repeated, looking concerned. “Would you like to buy some sweets?” She reached out to touch his arm and he jolted, becoming aware of his surroundings, though his eyes never left her. She was carrying a basket of candy in her hand, a wonderful collection of colours and shimmering packaging displaying the enticing sugary delight inside. Harry barely acknowledged those, however. His eyes were completely on her, and the blood-red gobstopper that she was holding out for him to take. 

He reached out for it and she placed it in her hand. “I do hope you enjoy it,” she said. “I made it myself.” Her blood-red lips curved lightly into a sharp and toothy smile, and her dark eyes twinkled once more. Harry took a deep breath in and nodded, entranced. 

She was beautiful, he mused. Cold, and a little bit scary, but beautiful.

She laughed lightly again, as though she had read his thoughts. Maybe she had. Maybe he had just said it out loud. It didn’t matter. 

“Eat it,” she prompted, pointing towards the sweet in his hand. He looked down at it, reluctantly tearing his gaze from her heart-shaped face. It was already unwrapped. He looked back up towards her and she pouted, her eyes watering as though she was about to cry. 

Her voice was wavering now. “Do you not like it? Oh, well, I guess I should’ve expected it - no one ever likes my sweets.” Harry silently doubted that. How could anyone not love her? Or her sweets? He blinked. Even his thoughts were jumbled now. Why was she crying?

He croaked out a response and she laughed once more, smiling brilliantly at him, all semblance of sadness wiped away. His heart fluttered and he reached down to pop the gobstopper in his mouth. 

His hand stopped mid-way towards his mouth. It was his father, and he had grabbed his arm. Why was he back? He looked around and saw that the pale lady was gone. Why did she leave? He looked up at his father once more.

William had the gobstopper in his hand and he looked it over before sliding it into his pocket. He heard voices arguing somewhere behind an aisle but they were muffled, and he blinked in an attempt to clear his head. What had happened? Where was the pale lady? Confused, he took his father’s offered hand and stumbled out of the shop, his mind a muddled mess. 

* * *

After returning to the hotel room, William sought out his old potion equipment and materials, taking out his copy of _Identification Proliferation Volume IV: Potions and Draughts_. Leafing through the copy for the correct recipe, he set down to making it, beginning with the ground daisy seeds. 

After settling the cauldron above the Collapsable Campfire, he regulated the intensity of the flame for the Identification Potion with a couple of well-placed spells and set out to prepare the rest of the potion. He opened the window behind him to allow the fumes to air out but regulated the room temperature with another wave of his wand. 

It was a quick half-hour later when William finished, pouring the potion into many thick vials. In one of these, he dropped the gobstopper, and set it down in front of him after shaking for a full minute. He let it sit for another three and then flipped the recipe page to take a look at the continuation, where the colour chart was printed. 

After comparing both, he realised, with a scowl, that the blood-red sweet had been indeed harmful. The Identification Potion was a general analyser - it couldn’t tell you what specific potion was used, and there were some obscure or specific effects that it didn’t even catch at all, but it did show a general indication of the intension of the potion used. And the light green-purple in the vial showed that it had been laced with a compulsion of some sorts. Probably to make the drinker extra susceptible to suggestions, or something of the sort. He shook his head at his son’s absolutely terrible luck and made his way into the adjunct room. He gave a long look at Harry, who was currently wrapped up in blankets, and Alicia, who was sleeping together with his son for the night. 

William kissed both on the forehead and walked back towards his room where he began cleaning up his station. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” he cursed, under his breath. “What if I wasn’t there to stop her? He would’ve been taken, and… there would have been nothing I could’ve done.”

William sat at the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, his hand gravitating towards his hidden pendant.

“ _Vancanna dameforsa. Parmi fil e esposé, te pido - dameforsa par protegolos, e finita el cur ponido enmi fil, e dameforse para-poder crea el regalo de-los Otros, el regalo de-la Magia. Est te lo pido._ ”

A lone tear streamed down William’s cheek. 

Harry leaned over the tip of the cauldron and took a cautionary sniff before leaping back and holding his hands to his face as his nostrils and eyes erupted in flames.

He swore violently and blinked the tears out. Who knew that the Sleeping Draught had such terrible mid-brew fumes? Harry paused. His father did. He looked up towards his potions mentor and scowled; something that was becoming increasingly common these days. William was laughed his head off from his seat. 

“It’s not funny,” Harry cried. “My nose hurts! My eyes too, damn it!”

“Language, Harry,” came the muffled call from the other side of the door. His mother had opted out of teaching Potions and was waiting in the other room for the lesson to finish. Something about the fumes being bad for her hair. 

“Come now, Harry. You know you’re never supposed to put your face over a cauldron. It’s a safety risk.” William proceeded to go into ‘lecture’ mode; this time about proper safety procedures when brewing.

Harry huffed. “But the base is lavender - it shouldn’t smell bad! It’s a ruddy Sleeping Draught!” he whined. 

“Yes, but you forget that after the Standard Ingredient, you added two blobs of Flobberworm Mucus, which nullifies the scent of the lavender, even if it doesn’t counteract it completely. Valerian Springs is one of the final steps - only after that does it actually begin to smell fine again.”

“I hate potions,” Harry grumbled, moving around the cauldron and keeping a good distance from the fumes rising from the brew. 

“Doesn’t matter, it’s a core subject. You’ll find that you just need practice. Now, come on, gently heat it for half a minute.”

Harry glared at the cauldron but heated the fire regardless. By now the pain had subsided, and he managed to concentrate on his potion, which turned out relatively okay for the fourth attempt.

After finishing with the potion, he collected it inside a vial and passed it towards his father, who was sitting on a conjured chair inspecting his every move. 

Nodding towards the colour of the finished product, he passed it back to Harry.

“Drink up.”

“But what if it’s not good?”

“You won’t die, so stop whining. At most, we’ll have to _scourgify_ your tongue to get the taste out. Now drink up.”

Harry downed the dark purple potion and shuddered. It tasted awful, but he did feel a certain numbness spreading through his limbs, and he relaxed. 

“Mmmm. Feels good. But I’m not sleepy at all.”

William laughed and told him to clean up after himself, while he rose to help with the same. 

* * *

Harry lay in bed that evening thinking of the potions lesson he had just had. He was pretty sure that it was an ‘in-the-moment’ decision: neither his father nor his mother had any qualifying experience with potions, even if his father had earned an Exceeds Expectations for his Potions N.E.W.T. 

He shuffled to the side of his bed and his mind wandered to the day before, and the woman in the shop. His father had explained to him before the lesson what had happened; apparently the woman had wanted to give him a laced sweet and then take him away. It seemed odd to him, considering she was very nice and very pretty - not at all like the villains in _The Greedy Goblin_ or the _Hunched Snatcher_ , who were ugly and mean and who mother said took misbehaving children. He hadn’t misbehaved, right? He hoped not. 

Opening the only drawer in his bedside table, he removed his mokeskin pouch and sat up, adjusting his pillow. He opened it slightly and took a peek inside: everything was still there. 

Feeling content at his sound luck at finding treasure, he curled up with the pouch in hand and quickly drifted off to sleep, dreaming of finding more rare artefacts and ancient books, even if they weren’t from the Grimm tomb. It felt good to have things that were his own, he decided. It showed that he was independent. And if they were magical, that was a bonus.

After all, they had been gifts. He was sure of it. 

Gifts.

Gifts from Mr Grimm.


	8. When In Rome

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER EIGHT: WHEN IN ROME**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

**A/N:** _Hello everyone! I do hope you are all enjoying the story so far, and I thank you all for the kind words and support. It does mean a lot to me, after all. But that's not why I'm writing this author's note._

 _Firstly, I want to explain that I write all these chapters on the go - they aren't pre-written. Because of that, I'm having difficulty finishing them on time. So, my schedule will become a_ _**bi-weekly update** _ _. Most of the length will hopefully be on the larger scale, so I hope it won't bother too many readers. I'm doing this because I think that the story will benefit from it, and it'll give me time to plan out further chapters and some days off for breathing time. This is, after all, my first try, and I'm not that good, so I'll be taking more time to write up better scenes and stuff._

_Don't worry, the story isn't going to be abandoned anytime soon, and the plot will start picking up over the next few chapters - I promise!_

_Cheers,_

_AvydReedr._

* * *

"How long, my child?"

"I do not know, your Highness. There have been sightings near the edges. Those who seek to hurt us are near, and we lose good men and women every day because of it. It is a painful and arduous task, of that there is no doubt, but it may take us months yet, maybe even years... I just hope that it will be enough."

"So do I, my child. So do I."

* * *

It was only several weeks into their stay in Berlin that Harry finally found the courage to look at the artefacts he had brought with him from the Grimm tomb - he had been too worried that he'd get caught with them, and so hadn't even taken them out of his mokeskin pouch. Harry knew that if his parents caught him with valuable and clearly magical items that they were unfamiliar with, he'd be in mountains of trouble. That went for all the books he had gotten, too.

But eventually he'd caved, and pulled out the few valuable artefacts he'd picked up during his stroll through the tomb.

He didn't manage to experiment for long - he never knew when his parents might come into his room so he'd been on edge the entire thirty minutes he could spare to look at the artefacts. As more and more time went by, though, he grew bolder, and by the time two weeks had passed, he'd managed to try most everything he could think of. It was only after spending the last two weeks testing the three artefacts in all manners he could think of that he truly thought about giving in and telling his parents. At least they would know what to do with these miserable things. He couldn't use any spells, so all his testing had to be done with his hands and eyes and other senses. Something that was slowly - but surely - making him want to pull his hair out of his head. And at barely eight years of age, at that.

Currently, he was sitting down on his bed, glaring at the two items before him. He reshuffled the scattered ink-filled parchment, trying to gauge any clue as to what the items actually _did_. On his knee was a short paragraph on _magical identification_ which he had pulled from one of the books lying around the hotel room. There was very little that he could do without a wand, save for a few physical experiments and visual clues he could try and pick up on without incantations. Thus, Harry was currently busy doing just that.

The silver horn had been - arguably - the most straightforward item, and yet _how_ it functioned still boggled him. It was a little more than five hands long and one fist wide at the large end, with the mouthpiece being a little wider than his thumb. In addition, the markings and depictions that covered the entirety of the horn - while very beautiful - meant nothing to him. A few shapes looked like dragons and basilisks, but he decided that was more artist's interpretation than anything. He had also sworn that one of them had moved, but relented to admitting that it was probably just a trick of the light.

After hesitantly trying to chip the surface of the horn, he was amazed to find that it suffered no damage - not even after being smacked fiercely against the bathroom sink's edge. Instead, it shone just as brightly as the day he had retrieved it. Considering this, and the fact that any protective bewitchment would most likely have failed after two centuries, Harry concluded that the horn must have been enchanted, and thus protected beyond the preservative effects of the runic array that he had disrupted during his foray into the tomb.

Trying to use it like any other musical horn failed as well. Blowing on the horn released no musical notes, or sound at all. Harry tried to pour water down it in an attempt to unclog whatever was stopping the horn from making noise. To his surprise, the water didn't fall out the other end. He tried pouring more cups down the tip in an attempt to push past the obstruction, but that didn't work either. Even after tilting the horn back towards him, nothing came out of it.

When he tried looking inside to see what was blocking the inside of the horn, all that met his eye was an unnerving darkness. No matter how he angled it, he wasn't able to see the other end. Resigned, Harry decided that there must be some form of space-enlargement charm on the horn, which made it difficult to fill, along with possibly a water-retaining charm, and something to obstruct vision, to boot.

He hated not having his wand.

His latest attempt, not a few hours ago, consisted of sticking his hand down the larger side of the horn, all the while muttering about his lack of wand.

While his hand did seem to enter the orifice just fine, after reaching the middle of his forearm, he began to feel an eerie chill settle on it, as though it had just been doused in ice-cold bathwater. He promptly removed it, shuddering at the unnatural sensation.

Further testing revealed that anything he dropped _untethered_ into the horn would not return - quills tied around a string could be lowered into the horn and pulled back up, but sometimes Harry would feel a small tug, and the string would return undone, and the quill missing.

Harry once tried testing this with a large stone he had picked up while outside - something certainly too large to fit all the way down the slimmer part of the horn. Initially, he had placed the stone inside the wider part of the horn, watching it slide down and jam itself on the slimmer part. He'd turned away for a second to grab his notebook, and when he returned, the stone had vanished completely.

Feeling comfortable enough with his findings, he promptly recorded everything down for further research into 'space-expanding' and 'hand-freezing' charms. He reassured himself that his notes counted as progress, even though he had no bloody clue as to why a _horn_ would _freeze hands_ or _defy space_.

After that ordeal, he moved on to the other two items, which showed even less promise than the horn, although for different reasons. At this moment, both the hourglass and the dagger were currently in front of him, along with the rest of his notes.

Harry eyed the dagger warily, and prodded its hilt with a finger, in a cautious attempt at getting something out of it. After spending the last few hours prodding and poking and slashing all kinds of things with the dagger - and trying to dirty it, too - he had reached some conclusions. It held a few enchantments against dirt and grease, and wasn't damaged at all by him flinging it around, though he'd come to expect that.

The last thing he wanted to test was what would happen if the blade came into contact with flesh. Harry idly wondered if it carried some kind of curse enchanted into it - maybe it'd boil his blood? Scald his skin? It made him very reluctant to do anything, but after moments of hesitation, he found his palm around the blade.

A breath of relief left him , and he lifted it closer, still holding it with his small hands, the ornamented hilt and shining surface glinting with a vicious sheen.

Harry checked himself over - he still had all of his limbs attached, and he didn't feel any pain. There were no black rotting splotches around his abdomen, nor was he vomiting blood. It seemed nothing would happen from simply holding it.

He turned his gaze back towards the dagger and stared intently at the gems surrounding the hilt - black, red, white, red, white, black, red, black, white - and slowly grabbed the hilt of the blade with his right hand, soft and _warm_ as it was, pulling it ever so slightly down…

A knock on the door _yanked_ him away from the dagger and he shoved it under his bed, along with the hourglass, and collected his notes once more, hearing his mother's call.

"Harry!" Alicia said, punctuated by another knock. "Harry? Are you in there?"

"Yes, Mum," he answered, before trying to swallow the taste in his throat. "I'm here."

"Good," she replied, pushing the door open. Alicia glanced towards him, and then around the room. At her searching look, Harry's mind quickly returned to the dagger hidden under the bed, and then to his left hand, which was oddly numb. He looked at it for a few moments before he realised what was wrong.

Unfortunately, his mother realised the same thing.

"Harry!" she screamed, frantically rushing over. "What happened? Why are you bleeding?"

He didn't quite know himself, and so he just shrugged. "It doesn't hurt - it's just a little numb."

Alicia pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the room, her wand already out of her hand and twirling and jabbing in quick motions. Potions and salves levitated out of the potions storage box and quickly made their way over towards mother and son, who were both settling down on the small couch.

Alicia worked quickly, her motions experienced and graceful. Harry silently watched the cut on the palm of his left hand, which ran diagonally from his index finger and towards his wrist, slowly sew itself back together. It wasn't deep by any measure, but there was a _lot_ of blood.

His mother gave him two potions to swallow, one milky green, the other a pasty blue. Both bitter, but he did so without complaint. She quickly switched from her wand over to a green salve, which she rubbed in small circular motions around the cut on the palm of his hand.

"Clockwise once, twice, Counter-clockwise once, then apply light pressure." Alicia rubbed his hand in the correct motions before applying pressure to the cut with the same hand and pulled out a strap of soft material from beside her with the other. She proceeded to calmly - but firmly - wrap his hand in the gauze.

"There," she said, sighing gently. Some of the concern visible on her face washed away, once she knew that her son would not be bleeding much longer. "All done. Should take a few hours to heal completely, but you'll be fine after that."

She hugged him softly and gave him a kiss on the temple, and then on the back of his hand, before waving him off.

Harry lifted himself off the couch and made his way towards his room to hastily put away his belongings, shaking with relief that his mother hadn't caught him with the dagger. He frowned to himself. Something was _off_.

Entering his room, he silently reached under the bed, pulled out the black-sand hourglass, which was as unnerving as ever, and dropped it into his mokeskin pouch. He reached under once more, this time for the knife. Coming up with it, he held it in the light, eyes wide. The knife was... _pink?_ Running his finger along the flat part of the blade, he realised the colour was a _part_ of the knife.

His mind ran through the possible reasons, from an illusion to a trick of the light. He checked the blade again, but there was no sign of any blood, and neither the floor nor the bed showed any signs of bloodstains. With that, he finally settled on one explanation that made the least sense. The dagger had absorbed his blood (probably magic) when he cut his palm and was a little bit tinted to show for it.

With a small smile on his face at his discovery, he lowered the knife - by the hilt - into the pouch, when a cough from behind froze every single muscle of his into place. He sat there, holding in his breath and hoping that he would come out of this alive.

He heard a throat clear itself. Oh _, Merlin,_ he was in deep shit.

Slowly, without bothering to conceal the rest of the blade, (for what good would that do?) Harry turned around towards the source of his fear and probably his very inevitable demise.

There, not three paces away, she stood, in all her deadly motherly fury - one eyebrow raised, both arms crossed, and honey-coloured eyes blazing like the pits of bloody hell.

"And just _what_ , Harry William Portwood," she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper, yet still biting and sharp. "Do you think you're doing?"

Harry swallowed the excuse on the tip of his tongue and looked down towards the planked wooden floor below him, silently begging it to swallow him up.

"Bugger."

* * *

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, sunlight pooling in through the window. It was the day after, and his mother, after grilling him for a few hours on everything that happened in the Black Forest, had proceeded to ask him all manner of questions regarding the items he picked up, all the while flinging her wand over said items - including the jewellery she'd been wearing.

After finding nothing _Dark_ , which was the main worry when she'd come to understand how he'd gotten everything, and being assured that nothing _dangerous_ would come of using the items, she had allowed him to keep everything...

In a magic-locked chest under her bed.

It wasn't all bad, he supposed. He was allowed to keep the more tame-looking books, which included the Grimm Tome, under the condition that he _earn_ the knowledge. In his mind, he already _had_ \- the hours spent in the Black Forest, and amongst the grey stones of the tomb _more_ than accounted for it.

But, he'd much rather take another chance at the possibly-cursed items in the Tomb of Grimm rather than argue with the wrath that was his mother, so he smoothly let it slide in favour of keeping his things.

To _earn_ the books, however, he had to _translate_ them - that had been the deal. His parents had said that as soon as he was done translating them, they'd be truly his.

His mother, magic bless her, pointed out that if translated into his own words, then the translated work would be truly and legally his - she'd come up with the argument that there had to be several books with the same information on Flobberworms, but none bothered to quote (or sue) the other - and considering the Brothers Grimm were long deceased, she doubted anyone could actually do anything about it either way since some of the books in that library had never seen the public bookshelves. It wouldn't matter so long as he kept _how_ he obtained the information secret.

With this, Harry caved in, and his determination to prove himself worthy of the books won over any laziness he would have felt at translating them.

After that, Harry was allowed to take books into his room, one at a time, and peruse them slowly, all the while translating them word for word. He'd have enough time to rewrite and add more to the texts later to make them his own, and maybe only years later publish them, if he grew bored with age as Grandfather Marcus had.

To his surprise, his mother had informed him that he'd been under the Language Charm for most of his German lessons - and that he'd continue to be under it while reading and translating the books.

With that, he'd been sent off into his room. While there were a few books in other languages (Italian, French, and Spanish), his parents had divided those up amongst themselves - his mother with Italian and French, and his father with Spanish. But, the large majority of the books remaining were still in German - and he'd been tasked with translating them.

When he asked about why _he_ had to use the Language Charm instead of them, his parents said that it worked best on young, developing minds - it was one of the few Mind Magics that didn't harm growing children - and that the older you were, the harder it was to use the spell's effects.

"It works like a sponge," Alicia explained. "A sponge in your mind. Allows you to soak up knowledge and words better and faster than without it. It doesn't translate anything for you - that's all you - but it should allow you to understand everything quicker - spoken or written."

He'd been slightly miffed at the intrusion, but quickly forgot about it when his mother handed him a report on _Volceleste_ flowers and gave him the offer of reading while translating.

Throughout yesterday afternoon, he'd completed translating a total of two very thin books, each no longer than a dozen pages. The first was a report on the properties of rare _Volceleste_ flowers that grew in the Netherlands, and the second a now-outdated very slim first-edition of _Nine Uses For Dragon's Blood_ \- both at least two centuries old, according to his mother. After finishing both, he'd been given a lesson on the Goblin Uprising. Terribly boring stuff, but he'd managed.

Today he'd finally - after much convincing on his part - been allowed to continue his experiments with the silver horn and the black-sand hourglass - under the careful supervision of his mother at all times. The dagger had been taken away - it was still around, but he wouldn't be touching it any time soon, according to his mother.

After messing about with the eldritch-looking hourglass earlier this morning - he'd come to only one conclusion - it was broken. Every time he'd flipped it, his mother had cast a swift _tempus_ , and he'd written down the time it took until the sand ran through. Sometimes it would take a few minutes while other times it kept going for longer - the longest period had been two hours.

For the last couple of hours after lunch, he'd been sitting on his bed, wondering what book he'd be given to translate this afternoon. He was almost sure that it would become a daily schedule at some point. First, wake up, eat breakfast, experiment with magic, then visit a museum while out for lunch. Once they got back, he would translate books, have lessons, eat dinner, sleep, and repeat. It wouldn't get boring by any means, and they'd also raised his allowance a tiny bit - two more sickles a month, which was good.

But he'd been doing nothing but think for the past hour, and _that_ was getting boring. Luckily, he was saved by his mother's arrival.

"Can I come in, Harry?"

"Yes, Mum," he replied.

Alicia walked into the room and her eyes automatically surveyed everything - probably looking for any sign of a sharp object.

"I brought you your book for the day," she said, presenting him with a large black book from under her robes. It was old and battered and looked like it hadn't seen sunshine in over two-hundred years, which was probably true.

"More like for the week," Harry quipped, noticing the size of the book in question. He took it gratefully, though, happy to have something to do other than wade through his thoughts.

She left after casting the Language Charm and checking every corner of the room for anything suspicious. Apparently, she still didn't trust him. It hurt him a little bit, but he supposed that it _was_ a valid concern - he _had_ hidden everything for over a month, even if he'd only started experimenting in the last couple of weeks.

Flipping the heavy cover over, he walked towards his small desk and set the book down, before grabbing his one-hundred-year-old German-English dictionary (it was the only thing they had close enough to that time-date). Snatching a neat roll of blank parchment from nearby, he set about copying everything important. Title, Author, Date Of Publication. Nothing was missed.

After scanning the first few pages, he realised that this must have been _the_ Grimm book, the one that contained all of their research, or at least a part of it, since it had been titled _Grimm, Vol I_ , and the index showed a large variety of topics.

Harry read through the first introductory pages, and even though they didn't contain any actual information, he felt better about taking this particular book from the underground library - apparently, the Brothers Grimm had been planning on publishing their work in three separate volumes - the first and second were both completed, but the third had only existed in the form of loose reports and papers, nothing leatherbound. The introduction by Jacob himself, detailed all the topics they covered on the first two books, and those they had planned on with the third. Harry read through the entire four pages before even realising he hadn't been translating anything. Scolding himself, he flipped back towards the start and got to work.

Sometime later, he finished translating the lengthy introduction. Satisfied, Harry read over his translation so far, trying to catch any inconsistencies or errors in his grammar.

> _**Beasts, Beings, Spirits and Others** _
> 
> _How does one define a beast? Throughout our research into the nature of magical creatures, we have come across several instances where our understanding and knowledge has come into question, and thus our research shifted - both subtly and violently._
> 
> _After many years of contemplation and near-death experiences, we have come to the conclusion that a 'being' could be noted as any creature capable of sufficient intelligence in understanding the world around them. A 'beast' would consist of creatures that are not able to do so. Some exceptions were made, such as for Spirits, seeing that ghosts and poltergeists do not completely exist in the world around them, and instead form their own existence. There is also the classification of 'others'. These consist of creatures, much like 'spirits', that are not of our world, but instead_ do _exist permanently on a physical plane and therefore are not spirits._
> 
> _As such, some conclusions can be drawn. Werewolves, Centaurs, Merpeople, Goblins, Hags, and Wizardkind (amongst others) are all firmly 'beings' in the eyes of our research, regardless of whatever the law presents them as. Pixies, Wyrms, Crups, and Trolls (amongst others) are all 'beasts'. Ghosts and Poltergeists (amongst others) belong in the 'spirit' category, and the rest fall into 'others'._
> 
> _With this clarification out of the way, we can begin the proper introduction into the first section of the book: 'Magical Beings', and a brief spiel on how this collection of volumes came to be, and the hardships endured to make this real. [...]_

With a sigh, Harry leaned back in his chair and contemplated what he had learned. He decided that it made sense, and although he was eager to continue reading, he had to pack up and start preparing for today's lesson. Closing the old tome and putting away his quill and inkpot, he left his four pages of introduction out to dry and walked out of his room, book in hand.

Finding his mother asleep on the bed, he carefully laid the tome on her bedside table and made to return to his room. He had to catch up on the Goblin Revolts for his lesson with his father later on in the evening, and there was still a lot of that chapter he hadn't read.

"Harry?" his mother called. He turned to look at her.

"Yes, Mum?"

"Come here," she said, patting the space beside her. He complied and made his way around before wrapping himself in blankets next to his mother. She tousled his hair and he leaned into her, savouring the moment, as they were few and far between. They stayed there a moment longer before she spoke.

"How much have you translated so far?"

"Around four pages, why?"

She hummed, neither here nor there. "No reason. I'd like to read it sometime, though."

He closed his eyes and drew the covers around him, a lazy smile on his face. "May I return with my history book?"

"You may."

He did so, pulling himself from the warm bed and towards his room, grabbing _A History of Magic_ and returning to the bed quickly. He was welcomed with a kiss on the forehead as he snuggled in to read.

Moments turned to minutes before Alicia spoke again.

"The other books did not take as long." It was a statement, but the question was there.

"They weren't as interesting," he said, a bit sheepishly. "And I got lost reading."

She eyed him carefully, and he laughed.

"The book is old and battered, it is in German, and it is in old and battered German. Does that answer satisfy you?" he said, imitating his father's 'posh' voice.

"More than 'I got lost reading', that's for sure." She tittered in faux-disappointment, though her eyes were shining with mirth.

Harry didn't bother with a retort and returned to the pages of _A History of Magic_. Goblins, it would seem, were rather ruthless during war-time. Wizards too, for that matter.

Alicia noticed the pictures that came complimentary with Bagshot's retelling of wizard-torture under goblins, and tutted disapprovingly.

"Must you read such depraving things here?"

Harry shrugged. "Blame father. He set the material."

She hummed disapprovingly. "And where _is_ your father? He was here before I fell asleep."

Harry shrugged again. "Probably...you know," he said, gesturing in circles around his forehead.

She considered it, before shaking her head. "No, I don't think so. We tend to do those things together. Probably taking care of dinner. Morgana, for his soul, I hope he is. I'm starving."

Harry laughed and leaned into her, comfortably. He remained there for a minute before looking up at her adoringly and smiling. "I love you, Mum."

"I love you too, little one," Alicia said, hugging him fiercely, before giving him a watery smile.

Harry rested his head on her arm once more and sighed appreciatively, closing his eyes. Alicia ran her fingers through his unruly hair, her eyes searching his face for any sign of discomfort, and smiling when she found none. Both stayed like that for a full minute before Harry broke the silence.

"Oh, Mum?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What does 'per-me-a-ting' mean?"

* * *

Harry walked up the white marble steps with some amount of trepidation, and he passed the bronze burnished doors quickly, without a thought for the armoured goblin that stood to the side. He stepped into the entrance hall, and for a second, he thought he could feel a _pressure_ boring down on him, but it was gone in an instant. It was _magic_ , he realised with a start. It was in the air surrounding him, and the walls were heavily coated with it, too.

They reached a pair of silver doors with words engraved on them, in German, but Harry didn't bother trying to translate them. As they walked towards those, he contemplated the magic in the building. It wasn't anything like he had felt in the clearing, though it was similar to the walls in the tomb. It wasn't hostile, but it didn't feel comforting, either. It was powerful, and menacing enough to make anyone think twice about foolish actions.

Two goblins bowed as they opened the silver doors, and Alicia took his hand sharply as they entered the next room. Harry wrenched his focus from the magic in the air towards the meanderings around him, though the unnerving pressure in the back of his mind never left.

Now, they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins on brass scales examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and even more goblins were showing people - wizards - in and out of these. Alicia and William made towards the counter, and Harry was dragged along.

Berlin's branch of Gringotts Wizarding Bank was impressive, Harry admitted, as he stared around the hall. He'd never actually been inside the large marble building back home in Britain - he'd only seen the outside of it during strolls through Diagon Alley.

William had wanted Harry to accompany him during one of his visits, but Alicia had always put her foot down against the notion, arguing that banks were no place for children, much less _goblin_ banks.

Even as they were visiting now, she kept a steel-like grip on his hand, glaring daggers at any goblin that even glanced his way. The warm feeling in his chest at her protectiveness was only offset by the sharp reminder of goblin war-crimes floating in his head. Last night's lecture had been terribly vivid, and Harry had gained a newfound wariness of wizarding photographs.

William walked up towards one of the free goblins, but Alicia stood a little ways back and tightened her grip around Harry. It was his first time immersing himself in magic outside of the hotel since the incident with the blood-red gobstopper. Any other outings had been to muggle locations, and nowhere magical. Until now.

His father exchanged words with the goblin - a gnarly, ugly short figure with narrowed eyes, sharp ears and even sharper teeth. Harry stared at the goblin to their left - he was weighing rubies the size of his fist. Suddenly, he was jolted away by a tug on his arm, and he swivelled around to find a new goblin escorting his father down the hall. He followed them together with his mother, who still hadn't let go of his hand.

The new goblin held the door open for them, and they walked into a long hallway - of stone, this time, with a long maroon carpet and torches spotting the walls. They veered off towards the left, then to the right. Multiple shifts and turns later and they found themselves facing a small doorway - barely large enough for William to slip through.

Harry walked into the room together with Alicia, and the goblin that had been escorting them left, closing the door on his way out.

The room, he noticed, was well furbished, though simple. A single goblin sat leaning in a chair behind a mahogany desk, and his facial expression resembled a smile, or possibly a scowl. It was hard to tell with goblins, and the lamp casting small shadows on his face didn't help.

The goblin wordlessly gestured towards a pair of seats in front of the desk, and William sat down on the smaller one, leaving the slightly larger option for Alicia. Harry slid in together with his mother, and they sat expectantly for the meeting to begin.

Harry sighed and leaned into Alicia's side, before scrunching up his face trying to remember the main points on recent goblin history that his father had brought up during yesterday's lesson.

> _Goblin reach only extended to the borders of muggle_ Europe _, and they were rarely sighted outside of that area._
> 
> _Each country designed their_ own _laws for dealing with goblins._
> 
> _Some countries saw goblins compete with rival banks, like in_ Germany _._
> 
> _Other countries barred goblins from entry, or prohibited them from setting up banks, like in_ MACUSA _._
> 
> _A few treated them as nothing more than pests - goblin-hunting was a popular sport in_ Siberia _._
> 
> Britain _was the largest country with a goblin banking monopoly._

He remembered that his mother had chosen that point in the lesson to voice _exactly_ what she thought of _goblin banking monopoly in Britain_. His father had explained that there was nothing anyone could do about it save perhaps breaking the treaties and waging war on the goblin nation. Harry didn't know whether that explanation was meant for him, or his mother, but it worked either way, and Alicia stopped grumbling about it.

Because of the treaties, the Portwoods made use of their vault in Gringotts, like most British witches and wizards, and thus they tended to deal with international branches when they travelled.

His mother _had_ set up accounts with other banks, but according to her, they weren't to be touched - except in emergencies. She made it a point never to fully trust the goblins, as history had shown that they weren't the most reliable of beings. Harry never asked why, but he understood well enough: the history books were rather convincing in that regard.

Harry's attention snapped back to his surroundings when William produced a shining silver horn - _his_ silver horn - from inside his robes, and placed it onto the mahogany table. Harry watched as two other items were presented - his dagger, and the black-sand hourglass, along with a small pouch, probably filled with gold, which William kept on his lap.

So _that's_ what they were doing here today. They were going to have everything appraised. Harry leaned into his mother's side again and focused on what his father was saying.

"—to set up a time-restricted vault for my son - linked to the Portwood vault in Britain, of course," he intoned, sharply.

The goblin nodded and looked over to him, expectantly, before raising an eyebrow and speaking in a rough sandpapery voice. "Well? Come over here."

Harry got a nudge in the side from his mother and he looked over to her - she was scowling but hid it reasonably well. His father had a blank expression, but his eyebrows were raised. Harry shook his head and walked forward to the desk.

"Here," the goblin said, passing him a sharp blade. "Prick your finger on it, and when you are done, drop it inside this vial.

Harry did as he was asked, and watched the slow drip of blood reach the tip of the vial, before pulling away. He returned both items and retreated to his mother's side, where she healed the cut on his finger with a tap of her wand.

Harry kept his eyes focused on his hand and watched in fascination as the cut sealed itself. His eyes drifted to the scar on his palm and he grimaced. His father nodded towards him and he sat back down, before looking up at his mother.

She was scowling again, so he hugged her side, hoping that her bad mood would pass. It usually did, even if they were dealing with goblins. She rarely stayed angry for too long - something about it being bad for the skin.

The goblin then set about pouring liquids into the vial and then heated it over a stone brick - probably by magic - before pouring it into a small key-shaped format. A few minutes later, the goblin was handing his father a brand new Gringotts Vault Key.

"I'd like one copy of this made," William said.

"Very well," the goblin replied, holding on to the key and giving it to another goblin who came rushing in. He turned back to William. "Is there anything else Gringotts can do for you?"

"I'd like these items appraised." William pointed towards the three items and the pouch of gold. "Seventy-five Galleons for the standard appraisal of three artefacts, plus the additional twenty percent for bewitchment and enchantment identification, correct?"

The goblin nodded and beckoned towards the door with a single long finger. Harry turned around and watched the door open as two other goblins made their way inside. They took the items away on a silver platter, while the desk goblin grabbed the sack of gold and poured the coins into a small tray by his side. He stared at something and turned back towards the Portwoods, apparently satisfied.

"It will be done in one hour - we will reimburse ten percent of the cost for every hour overdue."

William nodded and rose to his feet. Harry and Alicia joined him, and they were escorted once again through the twisting passageways. They passed the entrance to the hall with the counters, and were instead guided to a furnished waiting room.

Harry sat down on one of the empty chairs and fiddled with his robes for a while, before asking his mother for a book. She complied, and produced a copy of _Hogwarts_ : _A History,_ which he began to read quietly.

Time flew by, and before he knew it, his father had risen from his seat once more, and was greeting the goblin that came through the door together with the items. Harry got up as well and walked to his father's side. He wanted to hear what his items were worth, too. Alicia joined them with a harsh look in her eyes, and Harry knew he shouldn't have gotten up without asking.

"Appraisal one," the goblin began, pointing towards the silver horn. "Is valued by Gringotts at two-hundred Galleons. There are very minor preservation enchantments, and traces of ward influence. It is not Goblin-made, but still high quality. There is also deeper layered magic, but Gringotts regrets to inform Mr Portwood that we have been unable to identify those spells." The goblin handed over a slip of green paper that looked similar to a cheque, and his father put it away quickly. Harry thought he caught a glimpse of a spell name, but he could have been mistaken.

Harry looked over to his father curiously, but his expression was stony - cold, even. He didn't seem to care that much about the price, or the enchantments. Maybe he was faking it? Two-hundred Galleons _was_ a lot, all things considered.

The goblin continued, pointing towards the dagger - it was a darker shade of pink, now, and - a little bit green?

"Appraisal two is valued by Gringotts at four-hundred Galleons. There are minor preservation enchantments, major durability enchantments, traces of ward influence, and blood-soaking, along with blood-carving enchantments. Gringotts believes it to be a ritual blade. It is not Goblin-made, but still high-quality." Once again, he passed over a green paper to William, who took it quickly.

Finally, the goblin reached the black-sand hourglass with a gnarled finger. "Appraisal three is valued by Gringotts at two-hundred-fifty Galleons. There are major preservation enchantments, and traces of ward influence. It is not Goblin-made, but still high quality. There is also deeper layered magic, but Gringotts regrets to inform Mr Portwood that we have been unable to identify those spells." The goblin handed over another slip of green paper before giving the rest of the items back to William, who returned them to his robes, and presumably into an expanded pouch.

Feeling slightly flummoxed, Harry then followed his mother and father - along with the goblin - out of the waiting room and back towards the bank entrance through another verifiable maze of hallways. Harry had the fleeting idea that it was _meant_ to be so confusing - either to make sure that they couldn't find their way around alone, or just to intimidate them. He'd bet on the second one.

A few minutes later they reached the bronze doors of the bank and stepped into the afternoon air. Alicia grabbed him by the arm to hold him steady, while his father nodded towards her and Disapparated with a loud crack of displaced air.

"Side-along Apparition, Harry," his mother said. "Hold tight and don't let go."

"Yes, Mum," he said, with a long-suffering sigh, already dreading the next few moments.

With a twist of the heel and a soft pop, they arrived at precisely one block from the hotel - in a particularly damp and dark alleyway.

Not wasting any time, Alicia began walking, tugging a still dazed Harry by the wrist. It hadn't been his first time experiencing Apparition, but he still felt a little bit dizzy whenever he landed, and this time was no different.

They entered the hotel and passed the clerk there without a second glance. Harry looked up at his mother's face, but her expression was unreadable, and he dreaded what might come when he arrived back at the room.

Minutes later Harry was back on his parents' bed, and both were standing in front of him expectantly.

His mother's expression hadn't changed, and she looked distant - like she had during the etiquette lessons. His father had raised on eyebrow subtly and pinned Harry with an inquisitive look - one which he cringed slightly at. His father cleared his throat roughly.

"Harry," he began. "We know you said that you went out into the Grimm tomb and found these." William pulled out the three offending items. "And they are yours, but at the same time - they're not. As the Grimms are deceased and did not have any heirs, they do not belong to anyone, but taking these items from their graves without their permission is still wrong. You do know that, I assume?"

Harry nodded. He did know that it was wrong, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time. "The necklace and the ring came from it too." There was no sense in hiding it now - if he had to lose his stuff, then _everyone_ did too.

His father cringed slightly at that, and his mother seemed off-put. She looked towards William pleadingly before casting a silencing charm around both of them.

Harry huffed, not even bothering to listen in due to the loud buzzing in his ears. He looked at the ground, bored. After a full minute the buzzing was starting to hurt, so he stood up and motioned to his parents that he was going to leave. His mother was with her back turned to him and was gesturing avidly with her hands, so he looked towards his father. William frowned, but nodded in his direction. He took that as permission and left the room in the hopes that he wouldn't be able to hear the infernal noise behind a closed door.

He knew that it would take at least a good half-hour before his parents stopped talking to check on him, so he lounged around his room looking for something to do. With a sigh, he began to rummage through the pile of books his mother had left here one of the days prior. After moving a good dozen books or so, he came across a simple hardcover book he hadn't seen in a while. It was his mother's old Hogwarts photo-album. She'd shown it to him a few times, usually when he'd start up a racket because he was bored. Flipping open the small book, he made his way through the pages, a small smile growing on his face.

He spotted Randolph in black and yellow - Hufflepuff - Quidditch gear in one picture, who waved at him, laughing, and his mother and a group of young girls in green embroidered robes in another - Slytherin. There was one of his father and another young woman, blonde with sparkling blue eyes - both in Ravenclaw colours. He traced all of the photos longingly.

Hogwarts was his dream school, but after all the changes that had been made to the school in the last few years, Harry had no idea if he'd be accepted. Both his parents _had_ , and he hated the idea of disappointing them by going anywhere else, even if they assured it wouldn't be the case.

With that in mind, he then scrambled around the room, trying to find the most recent issue of the _Daily Prophet_ they had brought with them to Berlin. It was dated from the third of last month - they had still been at Randolph's, and received it there. He picked up the now-crinkled paper from amongst his growing collection of stuff and brought it over to his bed, scanning the pages for the article in mind. He was pretty sure it had an article on Hogwarts, or at least some mention of it, and late news was better than no news. He flipped through to the page, settling down to read.

> _**Changes In Hogwarts** _
> 
> _By Emmet Waffling_
> 
> _In the years following You-Know-Who's defeat, Hogwarts, always resilient, has seen many abrupt changes as it strives to overcome the era of terror and bigotry spurred by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and is now striving towards becoming the best wizarding school in the world. In the last decade, multiple changes to staffing, curriculum and approaches to learning have been initiated by the current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore._
> 
> _Some of the most notable changes include the return of the Wizarding Studies Class, which is now taught as a third-year subject. It is mandatory for all muggle-born and muggle-raised students, and is being Headed by Professor Narcissa Malfoy. Major changes to the Muggle Studies curriculum have also been made under the guidance of muggle-born Professor Lily Potter. History of Magic has also seen staffing updates, and after many (many) years, the endearing Professor Binns will be moving on to bigger and better things._
> 
> _Hogwarts is also opening teaching positions for new and existing subjects. Latin, Foreign Languages (Spanish, French and German) are all being employed come next scholastic year - along with the revitalization of several monitored after-school clubs, which will also be looking for sponsors. Other core and elective subjects are also looking to bolster their staff, and potential applicants should mail Deputy Head Minerva McGonagall with their applications (more on page 9)._
> 
> _Headmaster Dumbledore, in an attempt to promote further learning and international cooperation, has engaged in several agreements over the past few years with other wizarding schools to allow for future inter-school competitions and possible summer exchange programs. The exchange programs are invitation-only, and are currently worked in as rewards for exemplary behaviour. Given that only the highest-achieving students would be allowed to travel representing Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore says that the prospect has become an "excellent incentive for students to behave and improve themselves"._
> 
> _Along with internal changes, there have been several other motions relating to the school. After months of struggle, the Hogwarts Board of Directors has been disbanded, and Hogwarts, recently registered as a private institution, is now exempt from most interventions from the Department of Magical Education. In response to this, Ministry-funded state schools have been erected, along with multiple competing private schools._
> 
> _On related news, the Forbidden Forest now serves as a... (continued on the next page)_

* * *

Harry sighed and sat down on his chair with _the_ Grimm book (he still had trouble giving it a proper name) once more, opening it to the bookmarked page and settling down with a stack of clean parchment. He dipped his quill in the small vat of ink and penned his translation of the entry on the _Black Hound_ , or more commonly known as the _Grim_. It wasn't long, only around four pages, all things considered, but it was relatively vague. It was fascinating, though - the one thing that separated the Brothers Grimm from other authors was that they had managed to capture one alive - and dissected it.

After finishing up with the morbidly interesting notes on the Grim's anatomy, Harry contemplated leaving the translation at that for the day. He tittered on the edge, but decided that if he had enough time to finish everything in one sitting - probably around two hours - then he'd take a crack at it.

Leaning back into his chair, he absentmindedly called out, "What's the time?"

There was a murmured " _Tempus_ …" then, "Four-fifteen, dear!" came the reply.

Nodding, Harry whipped his right hand up and down to try and ease his cramped muscles, before flipping the page over towards the next chapter.

"Werewolves," he read, a bit apprehensively. It was a long chapter, too.

With a sigh, he left the room and returned a few seconds later, having had the Language Charm re-applied. Feeling a familiar sensation rolling over his eyelids and tongue, he flexed his fingertips and grinned, feeling much better about the twenty-odd pages on victims of the lycanthropic curse.

Setting to work, he took the utmost amount of care in choosing his wording and sentence structure. He even double-checked spelling every so often, knowing that his mother would be wanting to read over the finished translation when he was done.

Initially, Harry had mistakenly thought that his father, having been sorted into Ravenclaw, would be the one to have taken most offense at his poor essay-writing skills. Clearly, he had been wrong. _Very_ wrong.

Harry shivered unconsciously and inked his quill quickly. He still remembered the look of horror on his mother's face when he gave in his half-hearted first-draft of the _Volceleste_ report.

"Never again," he whispered, slowly shaking his head.

After several more pages of translated work, Harry punctuated his last full stop rather forcefully, before closing his eyes and leaning back into his chair, nursing his ink-stained fingers. Looking back, he had managed to finish earlier than expected, but he couldn't be bothered to spend the last few minutes rewriting everything, so he settled with looking over it once more, just to be sure.

"There," Harry breathed, relieved to finally be done with it. He arranged all the papers in order before picking them up. "Now to show it to Mum."

Heading into the next room with his fresh stack of parchment, he found his mother sitting at her desk, penning a letter. He waited by the doorway for her to finish writing before announcing himself.

"I've finished, Mum."

She perked up from her seat, turning around to look at him. "Oh? Bring it in, then."

He did so and gingerly handed her the stack of around a dozen pages. He'd had to copy the diagrams, but those were still a bit wet, and he didn't want to smudge them too badly. Luckily, his mother caught on and charmed the ink dry before settling down to read his work out loud. Harry settled in on his mother's bed, attentive to any mistakes she might call out.

> _**The Werewolf** _
> 
> " _Many centuries ago, in what is now known as Magical Germany, two wizards, along with one witch, decided to take their own lack of success with the Animagus transformation into their own hands. After initially managing to find their inner-beast, which already is a rarity in of itself, they met repeated failure when conducting the initial ritual and subsequent transformation."_
> 
> " _Angered by their lack of success and driven on by a need for power, these three decided to create a version of the Animagus transformation that would forever be embedded in their blood and consequently, pass on to their descendants. After many months of research and speculation, the altered First Ritual that would grant them their powers was completed. The three performed it during a full moon, believing the increased power would benefit the ritual and increase its success. They used a variety of inscribed runes and herbal mixtures, along with bonding blood magic to create something akin to the Animagus transformation that would - hypothetically - allow for their descendants to benefit from it as well."_
> 
> " _Unfortunately, the modified First Ritual followed that of the Animagus transformation too closely, and it failed. Like many a modern wizard, these three believed the core part of the ritual to be in Transfiguration, with aspects of Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Herbology. This belief is misguided, as the base of the transformation is heavily reliant on Soul Magicks. Some would not be far off from relaying it as a 'spiritual process', or 'understanding oneself'."_
> 
> " _Without taking this aspect of the ritual into account, the three practitioners removed many of the parts of the ritual that correlated with the 'soul' and 'self-discovery', and replaced these with Blood Magic aspects related to 'continuation' and 'blood', which would allow the transformation to be carried on through to their offspring._
> 
> " _Because of this, the ritual was poorly adapted, and it forced the three practitioners' magic (and in turn, their soul) to shift violently. One of the wizards had a lupin-inner beast, while the witch held a canine one. The second wizard held a predatory inner-beast. These components are one of the reasons we suspect the ritual forced the final transformation into a semi-lupine state - thus creating the werewolf as we know it today."_
> 
> " _As an effect of the blood magic in the ritual, the transformed werewolf will always seek to pass on its curse, usually through a bite, though if it manages to pass on bodily residue (such as saliva) into an open wound, the same effect can occur. When bitten by a werewolf, the newly cursed wizard or witch (or muggle) is forced to transform into a fixed state every month on the night of the full moon, and is perpetually [...]"_

* * *

"Harry dear, you won't _believe_ who we met while walking around!" Alicia called out, punctuating her sentence with a closed door.

Harry got up from under his blanket and walked into the main room, rolling his eyes at his mother's antics. He doubted they had been 'walking around'. More than likely, they had been out looking for information on Horcruxes again. Either way, he decided to indulge his mother.

"Who, mother?"

She looked up from her seat on the couch and smiled. "The Fillmonts. You remember them, right? They have a daughter your age - Beatrice, I think."

Harry scrunched up his face. No, he did not remember. "No… Should I?" he said, sitting down onto the armchair opposite her.

His mother seemed both offended and yet resigned as she battled with that. "Yes, you probably should, Harry, seeing as they _did_ visit often when you were younger. Although... you haven't seen them since you were little, so I guess it can be excused."

Nodding, Harry made to push himself up, before pausing.

"Was there anything else, Mum?"

Alicia looked up at the ceiling in thought before snapping back, having remembered something.

"Oh, yes!" she said, smiling brilliantly. "We're meeting them for dinner tomorrow, and—"

Alicia continued on explaining, and Harry leaned back into his chair with a groan. He could almost _visualise_ her whirring about the hotel room tomorrow, her wand a blur in preparation for the outing. Merlin save them all.

As though she could hear his inner thoughts, Alicia leaned forward from her seat on the couch, before prompting, "Your father and I wanted to catch up with them - it's been _ages_ since we've seen anyone."

The statement wasn't laced with any blame, but Harry winced nonetheless, and bit back the complaint he was going to make. After all, it _was_ his fault that his parents hadn't been able to catch up with old friends, and he knew it. Instead of enjoying the company of their old schoolmates, they were half a world away from home, looking for information on very dark and very illegal magic that could possibly get them in trouble with the German Ministry. All because of him and his stupid curse-scar.

Harry slumped against the chair, his mind no longer focused on the promise of a good book, but on the scalding guilt he felt at his parents distancing from their friends. He knew that he was blowing a lot out of proportion, and his parents had been the ones to decide on it, but the sharp pain in his heart still hurt - probably because some part of what he was feeling _was_ true.

With that, he shook his head and stared back at his mother, who was smiling and chatting about tomorrow's plans. He wouldn't complain about going to dinner. He could bear the outing - his parents had done far worse for far longer. He would bear it. For his parents. It was the least he could do, all things considered.

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be fine," Alicia soothed, taking her son's silence for anger at the proposal of an outing, and trying to reassure him. "They have a daughter your age, you know. It won't be that bad. You two will get along just fine."

Harry paled and, if it was at all possible, seemed to shrink a little bit more into the armchair.

* * *

They met the Fillmonts in front of a small, inconspicuous Italian restaurant, on the muggle side of Berlin the next evening.

Harry glanced at the _Tempus_ his father had cast, noting the time. Seven o'clock.

Swiftly, the Portwoods took a sharp left before crossing the street towards the muggle restaurant, with Harry holding his mother's hand all the way through, even though he tried to pull it out once or twice.

Mr Fillmont, a fit man in his early thirties, was dressed in a smart shirt and black trousers, and he seemed to have little trouble falling into place with the other muggles surrounding the two wizarding families. He had tousled light brown hair and dark eyes with a yellowish glint. He had a firm, unwavering expression, and with his rather sharp smile, Harry was given the impression that he was a businessman, and possibly one with ties to the Muggle world.

After being introduced to him, Harry shook his hand, which was rather rough for someone so well put together. He felt the man's fingernails bite into his skin and he let go quickly. Mr Fillmont gave Harry a friendly pat on the back and another sharp smile, before directing his attention back towards William. Harry noticed the tufts of hair on the man's palm when he shook his father's hand, but averted his gaze, already knowing what his mother (Harry, how _rude_!) would think about it.

Mrs Fillmont was a thin lady, and she had light chestnut hair which surrounded her green eyes in wavy curls. She was wearing a mid-thigh simple dress, which gave her the air of someone who could be anywhere from her early to late twenties, but she kept on smiling wanly and glancing up nervously at the dark sky. Harry wondered about it, but he knew better than to ask. In turn, she gave him a tight hug and a pat on the cheek and remarked on how much he'd grown. Harry stood there awkwardly until his mother came to the rescue, pulling Mrs Fillmont away to gossip and catch up.

The Fillmonts were a very nice couple, Harry concluded. Even if they tended to be a bit too much at times.

Harry had briefly entertained joining the conversation between his father and Mr Fillmont but decided against it when he heard the mention of 'Minister' and 'Elections'. He couldn't talk politics, so he turned away.

Resigned, and feeling a little bit betrayed, Harry nodded to Beatrice Fillmont. If his mother was to be believed, then she was around his age, and probably would be going to Hogwarts or one of the upper-end private schools.

Beatrice looked almost identical to her mother, save perhaps for having a similar eye-colour to her father. Even so, she was smaller than him, and didn't save much time in approaching him with a large smile, which he half-heartedly returned.

"Hello there!" she chirped, playfully bumping into him. "My name's Beatrice. What's yours?"

Harry stammered out an answer. "H-Harry. My name's Harry."

"Pleased to meet you, Harry," she said, bumping into him again.

Harry nodded slowly. "L-Likewise," he said. An awkward silence remained between the two of them before Beatrice shrugged and walked away, joining the two witches in conversation.

Harry grimaced, knowing that he'd mucked it up somehow. He tried to remember his mother's lessons on etiquette. 'Be polite and cool when talking with upstanding purebloods', and 'avoid magical topics when talking to muggles' rang through his mind the clearest.

Harry shook his head. He hadn't forgotten anything, but he wasn't prepared for Beatrice. She was a pureblood but apparently didn't mind getting all informal. She didn't follow the norms of introduction, in which he should have introduced himself, and then followed into polite conversation. She just bumped into him, quite literally. And then he'd stood there like an idiot stammering.

With a disgusted sigh at his own lack of social skills, he walked over to his parents, grabbing their robes and pulling them towards the door of the restaurant.

"How about we talk inside?" Harry muttered. "It's rather cold out here, don't you think?"

His mother shot him a fleeting glance before returning to the conversation, seemingly not convinced that the weather was the reason he wanted to head inside. But, thank Merlin above, she _did_ start walking towards the door.

William followed in afterwards and took both Mr and Mrs Fillmont with him. Harry gave an awkward glance at Beatrice, who smiled back at him and followed them in.

Cursing his ineptitude, Harry made his way inside and sat down at the table that had been reserved for them. He ordered a meal he didn't know how to pronounce, but that was apparently very good according to the waiter, and settled down to wait, sipping on a glass of water.

His parents were both chatting away, laughing and joking as they waited for their orders to arrive, and Harry thought he'd heard his name thrown around a few times - though that could've just been his imagination.

Feeling disheartened, he focused instead on the only other person that was silent. Beatrice was looking straight at him, and whatever attempt at rekindling the conversation he was going to try to make was snuffled out swiftly.

Thankfully, she tried once more. "So, Harry—"

He nodded, pleased that she hadn't marked him as a lost cause.

" —what do you think of the Weird Sisters?"

Harry scrunched up his face, trying to remember what he knew of music. Very little, all things considered. Unfortunately, Beatrice took his expression as one of distaste.

"Ugh, not you too! They aren't that bad, I swear. Just because they're _new_ , doesn't mean they aren't good." She gave him a pointed look as if daring him to try and argue.

Harry waved his hand, trying to assuage her. "No, no! I was just trying to remember what I knew about them. I don't listen to much music, anyway."

Her expression faltered. "Oh, I see." She gave him a thoughtful look. "What do you do for fun, then?"

Harry gave her a rare smile. "Oh, well, let me see. I like Quidditch, so there's that, and reading, too. I also collect things."

Beatrice looked up sharply, a look of interest on her face. "What kind of things?"

Harry grinned. "Special things. I've got a silver horn with a really cool design, and a really sharp knife."

She gave him a supremely unimpressed look. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I swear."

"Can I see them?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't have them here, sorry."

"It's ok," she said, leaning back into her chair. "You like Quidditch, then?"

"Of course! Who doesn't like Quidditch?"

She laughed, and he felt a bit embarrassed at his outburst. "Favorite team?"

"The Tutshill Tornados," he said, as though it were obvious. They _were_ his home team, after all. Even if he didn't like Tutshill all that much.

"Eww," she stuck out her tongue. "The Falcons are much better. My mother says so, at least."

"I doubt that. They haven't won a game since last year. Not even friendlies. They lost 400-120 to the Cannons, and everyone knows the Cannons suck." Harry argued, a bit of his Quidditch fervour coming to the front.

She shrugged, setting a strand of hair behind her ear. "I dunno about that. I don't follow it much. I just cheer."

Harry deflated at the admission. If she didn't know anything, how was he going to talk about it. "Well then, what do you like to do?"

She shrugged. "I paint."

"Painting?" Harry asked. "Huh. That's cool."

"I'm not very good at it, of course, but I like it!" she exclaimed, cheerfully. She waved her fork around for emphasis.

"Oh, alright then. That's wonderful."

"Oh, it is!" she bobbed her head cheerfully.

Harry leaned back into his seat and listened to her babble on about all the different kinds of paintings she'd done over the last few months. He put on a small smile, even though he didn't really understand what in Merlin's name she was talking about.

Sometime during her tirade, the food arrived, and he dug in, happy to evade further conversation. It was tiring, to say the least. He didn't know how people managed to do it so easily. The talk around them grew sparser as the meals for the adults arrived too. William and Mrs Fillmont chose some sort of pasta, and Alicia picked a stew of some kind. Mr. Fillmont was cutting through a large steak, which was rather undercooked, and still a bit bloody in some places.

Halfway through his own dinner, some kind of meat pie, he looked up to find Beatrice looking at him intently, and then at his scar. He braced himself for the inevitable question: all the muggle children at his old school asked how he'd gotten it, and he was prepared to lie to her too. Then she looked back at her plate and resumed eating, throwing him off guard.

Harry, relieved but still, a bit put out that she hadn't wanted to talk about it, tried to listen in to the conversation between his father and Mr Fillmont, but he caught the words 'Wizengamot' and 'Charter' and flicked his attention elsewhere. He _really_ couldn't talk politics.

With that, he forked another bite of pie into his mouth and looked over to the other pair of adults. His mother was smiling, like usual, and gesturing avidly, but he could sense that she was relaxed. Mrs Fillmont seemed slightly nervous, though he didn't know why. She kept glancing out the window and into the sky. It was dark out, though. What did she expect to see?

Slowly, he wiped his mouth with the provided napkin and nudged his mother, mouthing "Desert?" When she nodded, he raised his hand to call for the waiter, who came right over, although he seemed rather confused that Harry was ordering his own food.

Beatrice ordered something, too, but the adults seemed content to sip on their drinks, waving the waiter off, with the excuse that they were 'too full' for anything else.

When the small plate of dessert arrived, Harry reached around for his silverware only to find that the waiter had taken it away. Sighing, he looked over to Mr. Fillmont, who was seated next to the spare knives and forks. He seemed rather skittish, and his hands twitched as he held a goblet of wine. Was he nervous?

Licking his lips, Harry nodded towards Beatrice's father. "Mr Fillmont," he began. The man looked at him, and everyone else at the table grew quiet. "Would you pass me the spare silverware, please?"

Mr Fillmont twitched, slightly, before passing the bundled knife and fork over. Harry looked back at him, concerned. He didn't look too well, and was rather pale. Shrugging, he turned back towards his plate of dessert and sat through the rest of the meal quietly, even managing to strike up an errant one-sided conversation with Beatrice again, this time on the dangers of watercolour, whatever that meant.

Soon thereafter, they all finished, and everyone sat up, ready to leave. Harry managed to mutter an informal "Goodbye, see you around…" to Beatrice, while she gave him a tight hug and laughed, saying that she hoped to see him around too.

The Fillmonts and the Portwoods walked together out of the entrance of the restaurant, and they watched Beatrice tackle Harry with a hug and a cheerful goodbye - even though he very nearly dropped her. He also managed to return Mrs Fillmonts' hug with a smile, at least, while Beatrice needed no prodding to thank Alicia and William enthusiastically.

Then, his mother nudged him over to Mr Fillmont, and he shook the man's hand carefully, before looking him straight in the eye and returning his sharp smile. He was about to turn around when Mr Fillmonts nails dug into his palm again.

With a start, Harry realised something.

He tugged onto Mr Fillmonts sleeve and pulled him away from the group a few steps. His mother looked at him with narrowed eyes, but he shook his head at her, trying to dissuade her from anything. Once they were out of earshot, he beckoned the man closer. Mr Fillmont looked at him in confusion, probably wondering what an eight-year-old child could be wanting to talk to him in private for.

Harry scrunched up his face and breathed in once to calm himself. Feeling brave enough, he glanced back at the other's to make sure they weren't paying attention. His parents and Mrs Fillmont weren't, but Beatrice was. Clearing his throat, he looked up at the expectant face of Mr Fillmont.

"Mr Fillmont sir, would you cast a privacy or silencing charm around us?" Harry asked. He knew that what he had in mind wasn't something people liked talking about. It was rather horrifying, all things considered.

"Why?" The man seemed to catch on to Harry's expression and looked equally worried.

"It's for your benefit sir, I would be asking a sensitive question." Harry hoped that would be enough to convince him. He hoped the request would be strange enough to work.

Mr Fillmont tilted his head, considering it, and then decided to indulge him, casting a quick murmured silencing charm. He looked back at Harry. "Now, what is it?"

Mr Fillmont was somewhat tenser than before, and his shoulders showed it. Clearly the fact that there was a silencing charm around did _not_ reassure him. Harry, even though he knew there wasn't any way someone could be listening in, still whispered his next question.

"Mr Fillmont sir… are you a werewolf?"


	9. Do As The Romans Do

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER NINE: DO AS THE ROMANS DO**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**

**Thank you to wrackspurts_nargles for amazing work as a Beta Reader.**

* * *

**_A/N_ ** _ : Sorry that I kept you guys waiting for so long. This chapter's a large part fluff (which is why it took so long to write in the first place) but the plot will start to pick up from here on out, so there’s that. Anyhow, I do hope you enjoy it.  _

_ Cheers,  _

_ AvydReedr _

* * *

“I’m sorry... _ what _ ?”

Harry blanched. Maybe this had been a bad idea. “I was just wondering sir, are you a werewolf? I’m not accusing you or anything, and it really isn’t that big a deal, but I just noticed some things, and...”

Mr Fillmont cleared his throat, raising a bushy eyebrow. “What things did you notice that made you assume I was a werewolf?”

Harry teetered nervously in place. Had he misread the signs? Mr Fillmont was acting rather calm about everything - maybe he had just looked too hard for something that wasn't really there. He tilted his head back up, meeting Mr Fillmont’s inquisitive gaze. It wouldn’t hurt to tell him either way, though. Harry looked over Mr Fillmont’s shoulder and scrunched up his nose in thought. 

“Well, it's a lot of small things, you know. Your canines are rather large, and you have a yellow discolouration in your eye.” Mr Fillmont blinked at this. “The sharp nails and amount of body hair, your preference for bloody meat, and the way your hand keeps twitching,” Harry finished, pointing towards Mr Fillmonts hand, which was, currently, twitching. 

“Oh, and your wife kept looking out at the moon. I didn’t realise  _ why _ at first, but it makes sense now. But the full moon isn’t for another few days, so I don’t think she needs to worry.  _ If  _ you are a werewolf, that is. You probably aren’t, all things considered…” Harry trailed off, waving his hand dismissively.

Mr Fillmont drew in a sharp breath, and Harry glanced at him suspiciously. The older man looked away with a pale face, determined not to meet him in the eye. Harry brushed it off as unease at the current topic.

Squaring his jaw, Mr Fillmont, for his part, directed one last question to nothing, in particular, his voice almost casually suggesting a hypothetical as though one might suggest a cup of tea:

“And  _ if _ I was, what would you suggest?” Mr Fillmont crossed his fingers tightly, his gaze still not matching Harry’s own. 

Harry scrunched up his features, trying to remember the passages of Grimm's book. “Well, I’d suggest trying to avoid red meat or anything to do with blood. That makes it worse. And during transformations, the best thing to do is to confine yourself in a tight space. If you know any Animagi, they should be able to help you feel better throughout it. Oh, and scatter eucalyptus leaves around the room you stay in. Those have a pacifying effect on werewolves.”

He looked up at Mr Fillmont, but the man was staring into the distance, a slight frown etched on his face. It wasn’t directed at Harry, though - in fact, it almost felt like Mr Fillmont had forgotten entirely that he was there. Harry cleared his throat and the man’s gaze flicked back to him. Harry held the look for a few moments more, but Mr Fillmont seemed adamant on not focusing on him for long. Instead, he looked back towards his wife and daughter with an unreadable expression, one which Harry would have presumed to be  _ hope _ if they hadn’t been talking about a terrible curse. Longing, perhaps?

Mr Fillmont nervously looked back at the group standing outside the restaurant. His hand moved to scratch his chin, and his sleeve fell down, exposing a hairy arm. Harry’s eyes widened before he too averted his gaze. Mr Fillmont hadn’t seemed to notice the slip and continued the conversation. 

“I - well, I thank you for your advice, lad, but I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong. I’m  _ not  _ a werewolf. Sorry to give you that impression,” he rattled weakly, standing up straighter. 

Harry nodded slightly, before frowning. He was rather put out at being off his mark, but then again, everything had seemed rather damning. Either way, he reasoned, Mr Fillmont was better off  _ not _ cursed, so that was good. He bowed his head a little bit at the man. “No worries. Please forgive me for assuming.”

“It’s fine, lad. Think nothing of it,” Mr Fillmont said, already pulling out his wand to dispel the silencing charm. “Now, I’d best be off. It’s getting rather late,” he added, as they walked back towards the others. 

“Of course,” Harry nodded. “It was a pleasure, Mr Fillmont!” he said, waving towards him. Alicia and William had already broken off from the two Fillmont ladies and were heading his way. 

Mr Fillmont waved back at him. “You too, lad. You too…” He muttered under his breath. “ _ Eucalyptus leaves? _ ”

Harry looked down and breathed in a gulp of the night air and felt the tension roll off his shoulders. He gave a sigh of relief - looking back, that exchange could have been way more stilted and awkward than it already had been, and that was saying something. Harry glanced back up before stiffening at the look his approaching mother gave him. There might have been no werewolf, but  _ that _ was another danger altogether. And by his father’s avoiding gaze, he knew it too. Ruddy traitor. 

Alicia’s sharp voice rang through the night - there was no silencing charm around her, for sure. “And just  _ what _ , young man, drove you to bother Jeffrey?”

_ Jeffrey? _ “Oh, Mr Fillmont? Nothing, I was just wanting to ask him a question,” he squirmed, as his mother gave him a dubious glance. “... I promise.” 

She seemed appeased and nodded towards William, her hair swishing in the night air. “Your turn, dear,” she said, before apparating with a crack of displaced air. 

William clasped Harry’s hand and with a sharp nod from his son, Apparated away, with nothing left to show they had been there at all. 

* * *

Harry turned back around towards the glint he had spotted. He tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Dad?”

William turned towards his son. “Yes, Harry?”

“Why do they have a wizard’s pendant here?”

“A  _ what? _ ”

Harry pointed towards the glass cabinet they had just passed. “A wizard’s pendant, dad. At least, I think that’s what it is. It has the  _ Uruz _ rune on it, see?” Harry explained, dragging William by hand towards the display. Seeing that his father wasn’t contradicting him, he continued. “It’s magic, right?  _ Uruz _ means good physical health, endurance and vigor, no? And the stone is a ruby, right? It was probably made with that in mind.”

William looked inside the cabinet at the flat shining gem with the single  _ Uruz _ rune etched into it. He scrutinized it, making sure that it was the actual rune before turning back to his son, and smiling at the curious look plastered on Harry’s face.  _ A Ravenclaw, for sure. _

“No, Harry. I don’t think it’s a wizard’s pendant. Not complex enough, even for the wizards of those times. If it was, you’d be seeing a good dozen more runes etched all around the surface.” 

There was a slight pause as William considered the options. “I think this was simply used for divination or something similar. It’s small enough, and a little worn on the top, see? Probably from getting handled a lot,” William speculated, a pensive look on his face. He looked towards Harry, who was looking downtrodden at being shot down. 

“It is odd that they would use ruby for that, though,” William allowed, not wanting to upset Harry too much. 

“But why is it  _ here _ , dad?” Harry asked, a bit crossly. William wilted a bit at his son’s pouting expression. He had looked so sure that the stone had been part of a pendant. William sympathised. He too had felt like that after being thrown off his mark. 

“I don’t know,” William shrugged. “The exhibit was just renewed last week, you know. It’s possible that it’s a new addition.”

“This is a muggle museum,” Harry countered, smartly.

William turned back towards his son, arching an eyebrow. It was good that he was eager to learn, but sometimes Harry seemed to spiritually embody his mother and her occasionally smarmy attitude. It was something he and Alicia would have to work on with Harry - enough was enough. William sighed. “It’s possible that the muggles found it, though I don’t have the slightest idea how. It shouldn’t have just been lying around.” 

Harry seemed to accept that, but now William jumped onto the subject.

“Regardless if it  _ is  _ magic, I don’t even know why it’s  _ here _ . This is an exhibit on Ancient  _ Rome _ , of all things.” William shook his head and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Muggles.”

Harry ignored his father’s rant in favour of peering at the display. “Can I add it to my collection?” Harry asked, a hungry gleam in his eyes.

William sighed, rubbing his fingers around his eyelids.  _ Nope, Slytherin. _

“No, Harry, you  _ may  _ not.”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, you can’t just leave it there! The muggles aren’t supposed to know about magic!”

William cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “If you keep on shouting about it, they  _ will _ . So be quiet. I’ll contact the German Ministry to have someone come and take a look at it. Besides, divination stones don’t carry latent magic, and the muggles tried using them too. I doubt there’s anything wrong with leaving it here, even if it’s in the wrong exhibit.” William shook his head and walked away from the cabinet.

Harry rubbed the back of his head and scowled, first at the stone, then at his father’s retreating back. He was careful not to maintain the expression, though. He didn’t want another cuff.

After a moment, William paused and looked back at his son. “Why did you think it was a wizard’s pendant, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. It just felt like it was.”

William raised an eyebrow but said no more.    


* * *

“Hurry up, Harry dear. Five minutes. Go grab your things,” Alicia called. 

“Yes, mother.” Harry shuffled his way into his room, where he spotted his trunk lying on his already-made bed. 

Harry huffed and grabbed the small brown thing. It contained all of his personal and ‘earned’ belongings. The rest of the ‘unearned’ Grimm books were placed inside a separate black muggle briefcase that Alicia had bought on one of her outings, but which had been bewitched to hold more than otherwise possible. 

Harry made his way to the door and followed his parents down the stairs. They passed the clerk at the desk and Harry waited while his father checked them out. He returned the room key and they made their way out the door and into a nearby alleyway. Alicia grabbed him by the hand and tightened her grip in question. He gripped back and she nodded, apparating with a loud ‘crack’.

Harry felt the now-familiar tug at his gut and the sensation of being pressed through a tube before they actually reached their new destination 

He landed on the sidewalk with more dignity than usual and beamed up at his mother, who smiled back. “You’re getting better, dear,” Alicia complimented, letting go of his hand.

“Thank you.” Harry nodded, pleased with himself. “How much further till the cottage, Mum?”

Alicia tilted her head in thought before gesturing down the street. “It should be just a few blocks down here.”

Harry heard a soft ‘pop’ behind him and he turned around to see his father walk up to them, holding a trunk of his own. He grinned at him, and William caught up, ruffling his hair before kissing Alicia on the cheek. 

“A holiday inside a holiday, right Harry?” William smiled.

Harry nodded. Hopefully, Baden-Baden would de-stress his parents. Merlin knows they needed it. No Horcrux-hunting here. Harry’s orders. 

* * *

“Alright, your turn.”

Harry stuck out his tongue in concentration as he grabbed the card and tried to balance it on top of the tower. They had decided to try and create a tower of cards, one at a time. The player who managed to make everything fall lost. It was difficult enough, even if one disregarded the fact that they were using an Exploding Snap deck, which tended to explode at inopportune moments. Harry shifted his feet to get into a better position. Unbeknownst to him, his mother was discreetly pulling out her wand and pointing it at his side. 

Swiftly, Alicia caught him on the waist with a silent Poking Jinx and Harry lost concentration, allowing the card to fall out of his hand and knock over the rest of the tower. A loud chain of ‘snaps’, ‘cracks’ and a bit of smoke later, and Harry was seated once more, grumbling about cheaters as his father applied the counter-jinx.

He picked a golden-brown bean and popped it into his mouth, brushing a bit of singed hair out of his face. Harry fiddled with it a bit in his mouth, while William and Alicia looked on, eyebrows raised.

Harry bit down on the bean and chewed it a little, before scrunching his face up in disgust.“Earwax,” he choked out. 

“Alas!” they chorused, laughing. 

Harry shuddered and reached for his glass of pumpkin juice. 

* * *

“It’s just a card game, Alicia!” William pleaded, grasping his wife’s hands and shaking them. “We’re not betting any  _ real _ coin. Let him play!”

An echoed “Yeah, let me play!” came from upstairs. 

“No!” Alicia put her foot down harshly and glared at her husband. “My son will not be learning how to gamble. Not now, and hopefully not ever!.”

“Yes, dear.” William sighed heavily in resignation. He got up from the couch and made his way to the staircase of the cottage they were staying in while in Baden-Baden. He leaned onto the railing and looked up the stairs so Harry could hear him. 

“Harry put the chips away,” William called. 

“Why?” came the partly-sullen, mostly-whiny voice from upstairs. 

“Game’s off, I’m afraid.” He sounded just as defeated as Harry did.

William looked back at his wife. Alicia had stuffed her head in a book, but he caught the sly smirk she was wearing due to having won the argument. With her expression in mind, he turned back up to the staircase and tried to keep his voice as even as possible.

“Blame your mother, Harry,” William explained. “ _ I _ ’d let you play, but she doesn’t want you to.”

Alicia glared at him before standing up abruptly and making her way over to her  _ husband dearest _ with a heavy book in hand. 

“It’s one hundred per cent your mother’s fault,” William confirmed gravely, dodging an errant swipe from Alicia’s choice of afternoon reading.

A soft crash of playing chips being spilt across the floor could be heard coming from upstairs, followed by a soft “bugger”. 

William nodded at his son’s plight and chose to ignore the swearing. He had bigger problems at hand - like ducking under another book-swipe. Now  _ that  _ one was too close for comfort. 

Alicia however, was not feeling very sympathetic to either of them, so she moved closer to the staircase to scold her son. William used the distraction to make a hasty retreat.

“Harry! Language!” Alicia called, before turning back to her husband, only to receive a conjured pillow to the face. 

“William!” she shrieked, grabbing the pillow and banishing it back at him. He nimbly avoided it, smirking. “Get back here, you  _ prat _ !”

Harry made his way downstairs, grinning like a madman. “Mum! Language!”

“Hush, you!” Alicia said, waving her hand at him before turning her attention back to the bigger problem - dodging another banished pillow. She conjured up her own ammunition and furiously returned fire. 

Harry laughed and jumped into the fray, swinging his own fluffy weapon, ready to partake in the glory. He too received a pillow to the face for his efforts. 

All in all, Harry proceeded to perform admirably well in battle, considering he had no wand. 

* * *

“Filth like yourself shouldn’t be dirting this—” the weedy voice was interrupted by a shrill screech. “—the hovel you crawled out of, filthy swine!”

Harry’s head sharply flicked towards the noise. Across the street, he picked out the culprit. It had been in German, and he recognized the few words he managed to hear. The speaker - a boy not too older than himself - stood together alongside a similarly-dressed group of teenagers, all crowded around a huddled form. Harry watched in morbid apprehension and barely restrained fury as the group of teens assaulted the prone figure on the ground with hexes and muttered curses. 

Harry drifted slightly away from his mother, who was walking beside him, in an attempt to get a better look at the scene just across the street. Alicia showed no sign that she’d even noticed the assault, and William was a few feet in front of them, walking towards a second-hand bookstore. He too didn’t even glance towards the commotion. 

Harry took another glance at the assaulting group. It consisted of around four students - three wizards and one witch. They were wrapped in fur cloaks, and Harry noted a few had matching fur hats, too. After a beat, he recognized the blood-red robes they wore underneath the dark grey fur mantles. Durmstrang.

He looked past the throng of wand-bearing students and tried to figure out just who they were attacking. He caught glimpses of pale skin and a hooded face, but the figure’s feet stuck out the most - it had four toes, and its skin was rather warty. 

Harry’s brain clicked, and he felt rather sick as he watched one of the older students fling a sludge-brown curse at the hag, which struck her in the thigh and seemed to bore through her skin like a warm blade on butter. Harry’s stomach lurched, and he averted his gaze as the poor hag started to screech in pain. 

He tried turning around and tuning the painful sound out, but the noise never stopped. He felt a vile feeling rise up in his throat, and he looked around at the wizards and witches around him. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? He saw a rather well-dressed gentlemen shake his head at the scene - the  _ torture _ \- in disgust, but even he didn’t do anything. Harry got the feeling he was more disgusted by the fact that he had to  _ see  _ the hag suffer than the actual suffering. 

Feeling viciously repulsed by everyone’s behaviour, Harry whirled around to his mother, who was carefully examining something in the shop window. His confusion overridden by his desire to  _ do  _ something, Harry sidled up to her and leant into her robes, much like a cold child would. She didn’t seem to mind his behaviour, so he continued on.

Quickly, he reached past her cloak and gripped her wand, pulling it out of her holster quickly. It never occurred to him that the wand might not heed his command - he simply needed to do something badly, and his mother's wand seemed more than eager to help. 

Ignoring the startled cry his mother gave, he rushed off down the street until he was a few feet from the group of teenagers and the tormented hag. Fighting down his fear with an overwhelming feeling of repulsive distaste for the four students - who still hadn’t stopped cursing the hag, Harry pointed the wand point-blank at the back of the youngest, and angrily let loose the strongest “ _ Flipendo!”  _ he could. 

He watched in fascination as the body of the possibly thirteen-year-old was wretched from his lording position and flung ungracefully backwards as though punched in the back. Harry felt a rush of adrenaline as he watched the boy bowl into the only witch present, who then fell to the ground heavily together with him. Their winter robes did nothing for their mobility, and thus they floundered about for a few minutes, gasping for air. It was quite a hard fall, after all. 

Harry wasted no time and took advantage of the surprised state of the remaining two students, who were just now turning back to see what had caused the attack. Whether they seemed shocked that someone  _ would _ stop them, or that it was an almost-nine-year-old doing so, Harry didn’t know. He didn’t bother asking them, either, as he spat out  _ “Everte Statum!” _ and pointed his wand at the weedy one, letting loose a wide orange burst which sent the older student flipping through the air. 

Harry fixed his glare at the last boy, who had already pulled out his wand and was half-way through a spell. Harry felt a rush of blood and he flexed excitedly. He crowed at the chance to fling more spells around, and he was similarly ready to send a Tripping Hex before something happened.

After a beat, the boy took one look behind Harry and shook his head, apparently deciding that it wasn’t worth it. He quickly picked up his friends and darted off, not bothering to look back. Harry felt his excitement drain and his earlier energy burned off rather quickly.

Harry glared at their retreating figures, before turning towards the hag - who was now laying on the ground. He frowned. She was quite clearly hurt, but she shied away from him. Harry struggled with his words, before intoning in German:

“Don’t worry. I’ve scared them off.” He took another look at the hag. She seemed quite scared and a good bit confused, but Harry waved it off as shock. He tried again. “You’re hurt,” he said, pointing towards her leg, which was already bleeding quite a bit. Feeling quite uneasy, but determined, Harry copied the only healing spell he had ever heard his mother use.

“ _ Episkey _ ,” Harry breathed, his wand swiping diagonally over the puncture mark of the Durmstrang students’ spell. He saw the wound close off slightly, though he knew that she still wouldn’t be able to walk. She would need to see a professional.

“What’s your name?” he asked the hag, who was now staring at her leg in open fascination. Feeling very confused and a bit out of his depth, Harry took in a deep breath and ran his free hand through his hair. His attention snapped back and he remembered his parents. His parents! Mother could help her!

Quickly turning around, he was quite surprised to find his mother already standing there, arms crossed, with William just behind her. They were staring at him very intently, and Harry found himself more afraid than when he was flinging spells earlier. 

Harry tried opening his mouth but shut it immediately noticing the  _ look  _ his mother sent him. Suddenly he became very aware of the wand in his palm, and it seemed to grow heavy with disapproval. Bowing his head, he passed over her wand, wincing when she snatched it. 

He felt someone grab his shoulders - his father - and turn him around. He looked back at the hag, and saw his mother now huddled over her, casting quick and simple charms that would hopefully allow the hag to reach somewhere for treatment. She wrapped some conjured bandages around the wound and cast one last spell, before talking to the hag in muttered words that Harry couldn’t catch. 

When the hag nodded affirmative, Alicia stood up abruptly and walked back towards them. She whispered something into William’s ear and he seemed to consider it, before shaking his head in return. 

Harry grew more and more worried. Was he in trouble? He knew that his parents had told him he was banned from using a wand, but surely they saw that what he did was justified? Harry thought back to how everyone else had ignored the hag’s pain and paused. Was he right to have stopped it? Did the hag deserve it? What had  _ she _ done?

His mother seemed to have come to some sort of a conclusion because she then took his other hand and squeezed it. Knowing that it amounted to a warning for Apparition, Harry squeezed back, and they quickly apparated back at the cottage they were renting with a near-silent ‘pop’. 

Harry heard a similar noise as he was guided into the house; his father too had arrived. Feeling slightly dejected at having ruined his parents’ outing, Harry made his way over to the living room, where he sat down on the couch in a slump mirroring his gloomy expression. He’d been terrible - he shouldn’t have snatched his mother’s wand like that. It had been a complete invasion of privacy - not to mention trust. Harry clenched his fist tightly and glared at his lap. He grimaced as he remembered his actions, before scowling at nothing in particular. If only someone had  _ done _ something to help the hag, he reasoned, he wouldn’t have had to take matters into his own hands.

His feelings cemented, he stood up from the couch and stared back at his mother and father as they sat down as well. He was fully prepared to argue about what happened today. Hopefully, he could get away with any punishments his mother had brewed up. He was about to start when Alicia held up her hand, shaking her head slowly. 

“Don’t, Harry. I don’t want excuses.” She glared at him. “I know what happened out there, and I saw everything you did to stop it.” Alicia shook her head slowly, before gesturing between herself and William. “We  _ are _ proud of you, Harry, even if you did something incredibly foolish. You did what we would’ve done if it came down to it.”

Harry looked back at his mother with a mix of emotions swelling inside of him. Relief, because he hadn’t buggered  _ everything  _ up - he wasn’t in too much trouble, and his parents  _ did _ say that they were proud of him. Pride, because he  _ had _ done the  _ right thing _ . But lastly, a growing sense of indignation, because his parents made it sound like they were planning on doing something, even though it had looked like they were happy to ignore the hag. 

“What…” Harry began slowly. “What do you mean, ‘if it came down to it’?” He looked at his mother appraisingly. 

Alicia grimaced. “Bad choice of words, there. I meant if we had been aware of the issue, we would’ve done something.”

Harry huffed a sigh of disbelief, but he choked on air when his mother’s gaze hardened. 

“Either way, that doesn’t change the fact that you should have asked an adult. We would’ve solved the situation, Harry. There was no need for you to get involved. Those Durmstrang students were much older and very dangerous to you.”

“Furthermore…” William trailed off, looking as if he wanted to add his own two knuts, but shook his head softly. Harry glanced curiously at his father, but William waved it off, before nodding seriously. 

“Although your casting was exceptional,” William admitted lightly, “you could’ve been hurt  _ badly _ , Harry. That was  _ luck _ out there, understand? You caught them by surprise.” William steeled his normally soft eyes. Harry flinched, and looked down at his own clenched fists, before Willam’s sharp voice cut through his slowly worsening mood. 

“Harry!” Harry glanced sharply up. “Look at me. Listen” Harry nodded subconsciously. He would. 

William crossed his arms. “Just because you’re capable of holding your own, doesn’t mean you can go around picking fights whenever you think something’s wrong!” 

Harry ducked his head between his shoulder blades, wincing at his father’s tone. “Yes, father,” he said weakly, clearly repentant of acting without thinking. 

William, feeling that his son was sufficiently cowed, allowed his gaze to soften. His lips twitched slightly. “Don’t let it get you down too much, Harry. You did have the right idea, even if you were supposed to let us handle it.” 

Harry looked at his father in surprise, before nodding slowly. If it weren’t for the stern glare that Alicia sent to William, he would’ve never thought the remark genuine. He blinked to make sure it was.

“Don’t go encouraging him, William!” Alicia growled, before turning to Harry. “Never again, hear me? You nearly gave me a heart attack, Harry. I thought for sure they would’ve cursed you silly.” She paused, her lip quivering worryingly as she thought of that outcome. 

“If this ever happens again, I want you to call either me or your father, and we’ll resolve it. I don’t want you running off playing the hero.”

Harry nodded dumbly. “I promise, Mum.”

Alicia gave him an approving glance before visibly softening. She stood, before turning towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make some tea. Anyone?” William and Harry nodded, and she quickly left, already swishing her wand and boiling water. Harry turned towards his father, who had a small grin on his face. 

Harry grinned weakly back. He coughed. “Dad?”

William leaned back into his armchair and raised his eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why were those students attacking her? The hag, I mean.”

William grimaced, visibly holding his tongue from saying something, before he sighed. “I don’t know exactly what drove those students to attack  _ that _ specific hag, but I can guess as to why they did it,” he finally let out. 

“Why did they do it?” Harry inquired. 

“Probably nothing more than hatred,” William allowed. 

“Hatred?” Harry scrunched up his features. “Why?”

At this point, Alicia returned from the kitchen, levitating three steaming cups of tea in her wake. She let them down on the table, and Harry picked up his own. William mirrored the action, looking carefully at the cup in his hand. 

“I truly don’t know, son. You’d have to ask them why.”

Harry was flummoxed. “But they must’ve had a reason. No one just goes out and does that!” he argued, almost shouting as he stood up fervently.

Alicia sharply berated him. “Harry! Control yourself!”

He flinched, settling with a soft “Yes, mother.” 

Alicia nodded, before gesturing to his cup of tea. “Drink that. Calm down. Then speak.”

He nodded, taking a long sip and feeling the tea wash down his throat and pool into his stomach. He gave an appreciative sigh, before returning to his previous point, much calmer than before.

“What do you think, Mum?”

Alicia brought her cup to her lips, before setting it down again. “There are many reasons to hate another, Harry. It might be because you are afraid of something that is different from you. You might hate something because it reminds you of a terrible part of yourself that you long to rid yourself of.” 

Alicia took another long sip of her tea, and Harry waited for her to continue. 

“It might simply be because you don’t know what else to feel, and so hate is all that exists. It might fill something in you, give you a ‘purpose’, for lack of better words. Or you might be taught to hate by others who do. It is a very wide range of things that can make you hate, Harry. Any single one of those could be applied to each of those students, though some might be more likely than others.”

Harry fell into deep thought on his mother’s words. “Regardless, they shouldn’t have done that,” he said, shaking his head. “Four on one! Do they have no honour?”

Alicia sighed softly, looking at him sadly. “To people like that, Harry, honour is the last thing on their mind.”

Harry looked dismayed, so Alicia nudged him with her boot. “They shouldn’t have done that, but cheer up. You helped out, didn’t you?” She smiled gently at him.

Harry gave her a small smile in return. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I?”

* * *

“Do I have to read this, Mum? It’s a muggle book!” Harry complained. He didn’t really have anything against muggle literature, but he was hoping it would stop his mother from hoisting books on him to read. 

She glanced sharply at him from her seat on the couch. “Of course you do. Your vocabulary is  _ appalling _ , and you aren’t attending school anymore. You need to keep up with your studies, so the least you can do is absorb more; books will help with that. Now, off you trot.”

Harry groaned, before slumping off towards the kitchen. He took a bottle of orange juice out of the ice-box and served himself a nice cold glass before settling down back in the living room with the muggle book his mother had assigned him for the week.  _ 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea,  _ by  _ Jules Verne _ . 

Harry looked up at his mother once more, meeting her gaze with a single raised eyebrow and a supremely unimpressed look, like he often saw his father do. 

Alicia glared at him, before returning to her book. Harry smirked before getting comfortable in his seat. Content with his victory, he failed to notice the triumphant smirk on his mother’s face as she flicked her wand discreetly at him, flinging a Tickling Charm into his side. Harry fell to the floor, giggling uncontrollably.

“Not so cheeky now, are we?” Alicia muttered fondly, once she had dispelled the charm. She poked him in the side with her foot, causing him to roll away from her with a groan. She smirked, before waving her hand at him dismissively. “Now go to your room and settle down.”

Harry huffed but did as he was told. All in all, the story was very interesting and he finished it in three sittings, though Harry wondered how the muggles had managed to make the submarine without magic. It seemed rather impossible, all things considered. 

* * *

“DAD!”

“YES?!”

“WHAT DOES… WHAT DOES  _ COITUS _ MEAN?”

... 

“WILLIAM, YOU  _ BETTER  _ NOT ANSWER THAT!”

“OF COURSE NOT, DEAR!”

…

“WELL, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”

“HARRY,  _ WHAT  _ ARE YOU READING?”

“UH, IT'S CALLED  _ THE SCARLET WI—” _

_ “ _ MERLIN, HARRY, PUT THAT DOWN!”

“OH! SORRY DAD, SORRY MUM.”

“ _ WHY _ ARE YOU READING THAT?”

“IT WAS IN MY PILE!”

“HONESTLY, ALICIA! YOU NEED TO MIND WHERE YOU LEAVE YOUR BLOODY NOVELS LYING AROUND!”

“SORRY, DEAR!”

* * *

Harry flopped onto his bed, before burrowing snugly into his blankets with an unreserved sigh. Once he deemed himself sufficiently warmed, he looked back up at his father, who was sitting down at the edge of the bed with a smile on his face. Harry grinned at him excitedly. “Can you tell me some more about Hogwarts, Dad?”

William nodded, before stifling a yawn. The enchanter shuffled backwards so he could lean onto the wall comfortably. “Of course, Harry. What do you want to know?”

Harry paused, taking a moment to adjust his pillow before refocusing on his father. He wanted to be comfortable for this talk; his father’s explanations tended to be quite lengthy. “Could you tell me about the Houses?”

William nodded, realising that this was a moment where he could influence his son. But for some reason, he didn’t feel the desire to. Most wizarding parents would cajole their children - especially those from affluent families - to follow in their footsteps, but William didn’t want that for Harry. He knew that Harry would flourish wherever he was placed - he was just that enthusiastic. Nevertheless, he heeded the request, though noticeably kept any favouritism towards the house of blue and bronze he might have out of his voice. 

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is divided into four Houses: Gryffindor, founded by Godric Gryffindor. The house of scarlet-and-gold is said to prefer the traits of courage, daring, nerve and chivalry. Now, don’t let this fool you into thinking that the Lions all follow this mantra, nor that other students are incapable of showing these traits. You cannot be led to believe that just because someone is in a certain House that it means something about the person. Judge others on  _ their  _ words and actions.”

“Hufflepuff,” he began again.” Founded by Helga Hufflepuff. The house of yellow-and-black seems to lean towards the traits of hard work, dedication, patience, loyalty, and fair play.” William seemed to stroke his chin in thought. “Though, now that I think about it, I  _ have _ met some very sneaky badgers…”

Harry grinned, nodding. The image of badgers sneaking around deserted corridors seemed too funny not to laugh, really. 

“Ravenclaw,” here, William straightened. “Founded by Rowena Ravenclaw. The house of blue-and-bronze is characterized by their wit, sharpness, and intelligence. That’s not to say they are all bookworms or know-it-alls, though. Some simply pride knowledge above all, even if they do not necessarily  _ have _ it. Others are content with simply understanding, and do not feel the need to  _ use  _ their knowledge.”

“Finally,” William reached the last House. “Slytherin, founded by Salazar Slytherin. The house of green-and-silver prides ambition, cunning, and goal-orientation. They also tend to have an uncanny amount of self-preservation. Now, whatever some might think, Slytherin is  _ not _ evil. There are a few unsavoury types that fit into the Serpents’ Den, but the same could be said for the other Houses. You are simply more likely to see a Slytherin degrade themselves morally in order to achieve their goals, seeing as they have fewer qualms about doing so. That is not to say you have to follow the same route, in fact.”

“Most importantly, Harry, is that you  _ balance  _ yourself. Adhere to all the best traits you may have, and be aware of any faults that you carry, too. What I see in you is an unwavering sense of dedication to completing a task, the beginnings of a flourishing intellect to surpass your enemies with, a sense of keen preparation for all eventualities, and the nerve to stand for what you believe is right, even in the face of adversity. All of these, and more, I see in you. But they aren’t what will help you succeed in life, Harry. Some may say it is power, prestige, or wealth. Others say, love, long life, and happiness. They are both right, and wrong at the same time. Above all, a balance is needed. Remember, wizards and witches, are  _ magic _ , Harry. And what does magic seek above all else? In casting, in rituals, in  _ fate _ ?”

“Balance…” Harry whispered, entranced by his father’s impassioned speech. 

“Yes - balance! That is what will truly make you great, Harry. Don’t ever forget it. And if you ever have doubts about it, simply know that any of the Houses would be lucky to count you amongst their numbers. This I know for a fact.”

William smiled at the awed and hopeful expression beaming from his son’s face. “Now, let me tell you all about the graduating class of ‘97,” here he paused. 

William smirked, before gesturing vaguely in the direction of the bedroom door. “ _ And  _ ‘98, because I’m sure your mother would kill me if I didn’t tell you about her experience in Slytherin, too.”

* * *

The Portwoods spent the last few days of their ‘vacation’ in Copenhägen, where Harry finally managed to procure a wizarding camera, and he wasted no time in practising with the photos, deciding to start up his own personal photo album, along with one's dedicated to magical creatures. His mother had been insistent on visiting the city due to its fame surrounding chocolates, but his father held reservations about the trip - they’d recently received letters from Randolph about the state of his prototypes, so William and Harry were equally excited to get back and test the brooms out.

William had, at that point, regaled Harry with tales of his Quidditch matches - he had been a Chaser in his time, though he only played during fourth and sixth year. William had claimed that the OWLs and NEWTs had been more important at the time, and he already had to juggle his position of Prefect - and later Head Boy - during those years. 

Nevertheless, Harry had been quite impressed by everything his father told him, and quietly gained a gleam in his eye at the recounting. He was also showered with stories from his mother, who he came to realise - while not as academically inclined as his father - certainly valued success, and she had catered to her own image while at Hogwarts, even being from a newly-immigrated family. 

Harry had then promised to make his parents proud - even if they insisted he already did, he was determined to  _ prove  _ it to them, prove to them that they hadn’t raised a burden and that he could, and  _ would _ , make up for all the burdens they had to deal with because of his…  _ the _ … curse. 

Like his father, he’d be a model student - first in his year in every class, acing all his subjects, getting perfect OWLs and NEWTs, and like his mother, he’d cultivate relationships and cement  _ his _ place in the Hogwarts hierarchy by getting involved in multiple clubs and helping out both younger and older students. He’d make Prefect and Head Boy like both of his parents, and become Quidditch Captain as well, just to add something of his own to their legacy. He wrote all of this down with a smile on his face and continued to think on just how he could show his parents that they hadn’t raised a burden.

* * *

Harry wasn’t supposed to have come along - the last time he had accompanied his parents into an international equivalent to Knockturn Alley hadn’t gone too well. He clearly hadn’t realised it at the time, but accepting candy from strangers?  _ Huge _ no-no. 

However, after many hours of pleading and promises to stick close to his mother - regardless if something shiny caught his eye - Harry was allowed to follow his parents around as they looked for any information on Horcruxes.

Even if Harry very much wanted to explore the shop they had just entered, he didn’t dare. He did plan on being less of a burden, and he realised his first step was to obey his parents - he’d have done so regardless, but it only further cemented the thought into place. He wouldn’t be a burden. Never. 

“Harry, come here.”

Harry was snapped out of his determined inner-monologue by his mother’s voice. He looked up at her and met a worried gaze, but after he beamed at her, it dissipated. Her raised eyebrow, however, did not. 

“Just thinking, Mum.”

If anything, her eyebrow raised even further at that. Harry (mentally) smacked himself in the head. Oh, sure. He was in a Dark bookstore, and while idly looking at the various shelves lined with morbid tomes, he was  _ thinking _ . Just  _ thinking _ . How his mother didn’t immediately check him for compulsion charms was beyond him. 

That is... until he noticed her doing that exact thing a couple of seconds later. He sighed in relief. Clearly, he had not been under any, though he felt as though he would have known that. He had been, in fact, just thinking. It genuinely hadn’t been related to the books on the Dark Arts at all.

In fact, he didn’t even notice they had already left the shop until a few moments later. He had apparently blanked again. Bloody inner-monologues. 

“Did father purchase anything?” he probed, looking up at his mother, who was currently hustling down the street, him in hand. She’d always told him to keep the informality for private situations. Publicly, it was best if he acted the part. Meanwhile, Alica shook her head lightly. 

“Yes, but he’s going off somewhere else before coming home. He needs to get a few things done beforehand.”

Harry nodded and didn’t even question her use of the words  _ home _ . In fact, he probably felt the same. They had moved so much over the last few months (even though he had spent long periods of time still) that he no longer really felt stuck to one place. It was a good thought, he reasoned. He’d never really liked Tutshill, though that might’ve just been the neighbourhood, not his actual house. 

* * *

William was breathless when he returned later that evening. He reached into his robes immediately after shutting the door and produced a  _ very  _ brittle and  _ very _ decrepit looking book. It wasn’t a tome, though it certainly looked the age for it. It was much slimmer, Harry realised and carried a rather personal feel. He had been about to ask his father what the book was about before he quickly clamped his mouth shut. If they didn’t notice he was here, then they’d talk in his presence, and he couldn’t have been told off. If they noticed, then clearly it was allowed. 

Just as soon as William had produced the book, Alicia began questioning him. “Well, William? Spit it out!”

His father had a huge grin on his face, and Harry quickly felt a building sense of hope in his being. Had he really found something?

“I think I’ve found something, Alicia -” William held up a hand to stop her from speaking “-but I can’t be sure. I’ve not finished looking through everything, but there are already signs that this book - even if I don’t think it can help us in any way, might point us in the right direction. I’ve come across the name in it, dear. That’s more than I could find in anything else so far.”

Alicia looked incredibly impatient. “Well? What does it say?”

At this point, William glanced around the room, and his eyes landed on Harry. Inwardly, Harry shook with excitement. He really wanted to know too, but by the stern look of disapproval on William’s face, he knew it was best if he didn’t listen into the subject. Nodding idly, Harry picked himself up from his seat and gathered his book, before making his way into his room. He heard some fierce whispering once the door closed, but that was quickly muted too. Probably a silencing charm of some sort, he mused, sitting down on his bed and resuming his reading. Besides, his parents would tell him if it led to anything conclusive. 

Just as soon as he had gotten back into his first sentence, he heard a knock on the door. Harry knew it was his father because his mother  _ never _ knocked. She just barged in whenever she had the  _ feeling _ that he was doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

Harry rose to open the door and was met by the expectant face of his father. “Yes, Dad?” he queried, noticing the barely hidden excitement on his father’s face.

“We’ve got a clue, son,” William said, pulling Harry out of the room and down towards the living room. “The book mentions Horcruxes - by  _ name _ \- but it doesn’t give much more than that, so we’ve decided to track down the author, and see if he can help us.”

Harry’s eyes shone with hope. “Really?” he whispered. They had finally found something!

“Yes. We’re going to be returning to Randolphs’ for the month, but once we narrow his location down, we’re going straight there - and hopefully find some answers.”

Harry simply nodded dumbly, before giving his father a tight hug. “Thanks, Dad.” He turned over to his mother, who looked just as relieved as he did. “Thanks, Mum.”

William nodded. “Now, go pack your things - we’re going back first thing tomorrow morning.”

He had barely finished talking before Harry was already racing off towards his room, intent on packing everything quickly. Finishing in record time, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the window outside, inwardly beaming at the luck they had stumbled upon. He was finally going to get some answers - and maybe even find a cure. Even though a small part of Harry knew it was never that simple, he still rejoiced at the lead they had been given. 

Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be a burden for much longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took so long. Real-life hit hard. 
> 
> Read and Review, please.


	10. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you to everyone who has followed this story along so far - you’re all absolutely brilliant, and it's way more than I deserve. I also apologise for the bit of ghosting I gave a couple of weeks back - I must’ve skipped a couple of deadlines. Hopefully, the larger-than-normal chapter today will balance that out. 
> 
> Anyways, for now, I present the tenth chapter, ‘ Ashes to Ashes’, which marks the end of Part I: The Forest of Dreams. The next chapter will mark the beginning of Part II: The Sands of Time. Take a guess as to where it’ll take place... 
> 
> Anyhow, I do hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think of it in the reviews. 
> 
> Cheers, 
> 
> AvydReedr
> 
> PS: A thank you to Wakefan for helping out with discussions and providing a refreshing perspective surrounding my worldbuilding. They’ve been singularly wonderful. Many cheers to them - and I do encourage you all to check out their work. 
> 
> Additionally, I regret to inform you all that the ever-wonderful wrackspurts_nargles has decided to step down as a Beta Reader, citing personal reasons. I thank them for all the great work they’ve done, and wish them the very best. 
> 
> Now, I find myself with the position of Beta Reader vacant. I am currently looking for a replacement, but have yet to receive any replies from the users I have sought out. If anyone has any recommendations or knows anyone who might be interested, don’t hesitate to contact me. 

**PART ONE: THE FOREST OF DREAMS**

**CHAPTER TEN: ASHES TO ASHES**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership. 

* * *

Harry groaned, standing up from the heavily carpeted pine floor with a heaving sigh. He looked around at his smirking parents and maturely stuck his tongue out at them. They laughed; he scowled good-naturedly. 

“S’not funny,” he grumbled, now standing and trying to rid himself of the soot that had _coated_ him while using the Floo. “Can’t even clean this mess myself,” he added pointedly towards Alicia. 

His mother simply raised an eyebrow at his attempted dig and whisked her wand at him swiftly, which promptly removed all the dust and soot from his person. Harry glanced at her, and even though he was already clean, she wrinkled her nose at him. He snorted, before trying to smooth out his clothes. 

“What happened?” Harry asked, finally done with his grooming. He pointed at the fireplace while he addressed his parents. 

William cocked his head in thought. “Not sure. The Floo’s never been a problem for you before, and it seemed to work just fine for us. I think it’s the fireplace. It’s probably from a lack of use, and knowing Randolph, no-one’s bothered to tune it in a while. So you basically gave it a bit of a force tuning, and that settled the enchantments out.” Harry eyed his father, who simply shrugged like the assessment wasn’t a big deal. 

Harry then glared at the fireplace before making his way into the living room proper and settling down onto the single armchair present. He looked around at the familiar paintings and littered shelves before his eyes rested on a peculiar landscape of a hill bathed in fiery flames. He scrutinized it for a moment before turning back towards his mother. “Well then, I’m glad I didn’t die from the backlash that came with force-fixing that ruddy thing,” he barbed, ignoring his mother’s glaring admonishment for his language. 

William grimaced as he too looked around the room. “It was very likely that you would have simply winded up in a random fireplace. Nothing we couldn’t fix right away. A little bit of scrying is all it would take.” William joined his son sitting down on the couch. Alicia followed elegantly. “Randolph’s probably been holed up here since we left if we go by that letter. It’s probably why the fireplace wasn’t tuned at all…” William trailed off, looking at the door. 

Alicia sneered distastefully, crossing her arms. “Honestly,” she huffed, “‘ _Come quick - prototype’s finished.’_ The nerve...” 

She proceeded to mutter something about ‘men’ that Harry didn’t quite catch - though William did if the affronted look he shot at her was any indication. Alicia didn’t let up though, and Harry smiled slightly at his parents. They could be quite silly sometimes. 

William finally cut through Alicia’s complaining with a reminder on politeness. “We are staying here for free, dear. Be more compassionate. It’s only his full-time job, after all,” he said, with a teasing grin. Alicia shot him a venomous glare, before quickly easing up. Harry caught the change. It was quick - too quick. She was planning something, he decided. Something he wanted no part of. Harry settled instead for admiring the glass-encased broomstick to his left. 

Alicia gave nothing away though, and continued with her ruse, shaking her head exasperatedly at her husband. “It’s _Quidditch_. I don’t see the point.” She ignored the indignant noises coming from her husband and son. “Besides, where is he?”

As if on cue, the door to Spudmore Cottage burst open, and Randolph strode in, a beaming smile on his face. He grinned at William, who got up to greet him. 

“William! It’s been far too long!” Randolph crowed, his arms open wide as he pulled William into a tight ‘manly’ hug. Harry shared a look with his mother. Apparently, working on his late father’s dream - and making progress on it - had done wonders for Randolph’s self-esteem. He was more cheerful, at least. 

Alicia too got up to greet him, but her excitement was much more subdued. Randolph didn’t seem to let that deter his good cheer. Harry quickly got up and greeted ‘Uncle Randolph’ too, not wanting to appear rude. He was still a bit sore from the fireplace, though. Not that he’d admit it in front of anyone. 

“Come,” Randolph beckoned, once the pleasantries had been exchanged. “I’ve got to show you the latest prototype! Maybe give it a run, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows at William, who grinned in response. Harry restrained himself from gawking. Had someone cast a Cheering Charm on him? It was almost unnatural. Harry would have to check for any meddling spirits lying around. Even if the result looked to be good, you never knew when something had ulterior motives; _especially_ if it was making you _happy_. 

Harry was quick to follow them out the door, ready to determine if whatever spirit was affecting Randolph was personal or homely. The type of spirit did change the approach, so it deemed investigation. Harry was almost out the door before he heard his mother sharply clear her throat. He whizzed around to face her, already nervous. Alicia raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked up at her with expectant eyes. 

After a moment, he wavered. Harry sighed, before nodding. “Don’t worry Mum, I’m just going to check Randolph for _influences_. I think it’s a spirit, but you can never be too sure.”

Alicia seemed slightly thrown off at his response, but she adapted quickly and nodded once. “Go on, then.”

Harry grinned and was about to continue out before he remembered what his father and Uncle Randolph had been talking _about_ , and he turned around again—

“You can watch,” she instructed. “ _Only_ watch,” came his mother’s amused voice, like she just _knew_ exactly what he was going to ask. Harry grinned at her, feeling strangely overjoyed by her attentiveness. She always knew. 

“Thanks, mum. You’re the best.” Harry rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his mother in a burst of affection. Alicia seemed slightly confused at the outcome of her warning, but accepted the hug nonetheless, and watched Harry with a slight smile as he sprinted out the door and thundered across the grass towards the industrial shed as fast as his nine-year-old legs could carry him.

* * *

_— A great many hours later, Harry collapsed onto his bed in his room with a heavy sigh, but not before rubbing his face vigorously with his hands, trying to dispel the weariness from his muscles. At least the day had been productive, in a sense. —_

* * *

Harry eventually slowed his run down to a stroll, deciding that the issue of possible-possession wasn’t _that_ serious, and it wouldn’t hurt to appreciate the walk to the shed. Much like his previous time spent at Spudmore Cottage, Harry relished the shimmering woods surrounding him, the bright, warm feeling of the sun on his back, and the genuine _freedom_ he felt was only accentuated by the breeze that carried through the clearing. 

While Berlin had been a great experience, his constant hours in the hotel had been too similar to his time at Tutshill to satiate his pent-up energy. It had been bearable, due to the constant outings and the interesting reading, but he still felt cramped, confined. 

Baden-Baden had been a good change of scenery, and the small cottage house had been a wonderful escape for his parents. But it wasn’t perfect; after the incident in Berlin, he’d been spending more time inside and rarely left to explore with his parents, as they were afraid of a repeat performance. Still, he didn’t complain. They needed reassurance, and he got to spend more free time with them. The thought brought a smile to his face. 

Copenhägen, even though it was another country, had been very similar to the two previous cities. They’d stayed in another cottage, and he’d slowly but surely been allowed out more into the city, but it was over before he could truly experience the capital of Denmark. His parents had caught a break on the search for information, and he’d been ecstatic, so the abrupt return to ‘working’ wasn’t unwelcome. Especially since it brought them back here. Harry grinned. 

Even though he’d been around _magic_ and he’d been allowed to _learn_ , the cities were densely populated, and the dangers-that-be prohibited him from simply _going outside_ and enjoying himself. But that wasn’t a problem here. 

Harry breathed in the clean air as he reached the large steel doors of the industrial shed. While it had maintained its purpose as a broom manufacturing centre, its image had changed. 

No longer was it the downtrodden and forgotten visage of Ellerby and Spudmore, with plain grey steel walls and a bare-bones feel to it. Now, the entire shed gleamed with a bright red coating of paint, and small golden designs of broomsticks that _zoomed_ across the surface of the paint. Harry laughed jovially at the sight. It breathed _life_ into the building, he decided. Harry glanced up with wide eyes at the sign above the door. 

_Firebolt Racing Broom Company_

Harry grinned. He was sure that _something_ had happened to Randolph in the past month, but now it didn’t seem so bad…

With a jolt, Harry stopped that line of thought. _No._ This was very likely a ruse, created to throw anyone off the trail of suspicion. Nodding once to clear his mind, he swept over towards the doors and slipped inside the admittedly impressive building. 

His sharp footfall paused just as the doors closed behind him. He gave an appreciative nod to his surroundings as Harry noticed the change on the inside of the building. It was just as well-done as the outside, if a bit less jarring in colour. It was smoother, less distracting, which made sense, considering that manufacturing required concentration. 

The inner walls of the shed weren’t _coated_ in flaming hot red, but instead painted with a smart fresh grey which _screamed_ business, and the ceiling matched. The floor was no longer dirt, but instead large stone tiles. Further down the shed, a small oval-shaped patch of grass laid in the centre of the shed, with three golden hooped goal posts on either side. A quarter-size indoor Quidditch pitch. Harry tried to smother a grin. He had to remain serious.

To his right, a great many tables in varied sizes were set up, each filled with different intricate broom parts and a few littered books. Harry caught sight of a couple of nearly-done broomsticks, and he felt a little excited at the thought of flying one, but he quashed that ruthlessly. He needed to find Randolph. 

The middle of the shed was clear (save for the pitch), and all the crates and boxes that had previously occupied the space were now lined up against the west, north and east walls. They stood proudly to attention, organized by size and contents, watching attentively the on-goings of the shed. 

Harry glanced upwards once he realised the brightness in the shed was lighter than before, and he was pleasantly surprised to see several beaming lanterns hanging down from the arching metal beams. The bright white light that emanated from them clicked in his brain, and he recognized them as _Everlasting Lights_ , a special kind of enchanted lantern which he’d seen around shops and streets. It was the wizarding response to muggle light bulbs, except that they never ran out of light, and required no power to sustain. They emitted no heat, either, but were patented, and only sold in large quantities to businesses. It was a good sign that Randolph had gotten his hands on some of them…

 _No!_ Harry scowled. Harry looked down sharply and swivelled his head to the left. His eyebrows rose at the sight he was looking for. In the corner of the shed, a small, walled-off box served as a makeshift ‘office’ for the Firebolt Racing Broom Company. Inside, he was most likely going to find his father and Randolph. He made his way over to the door to the office and opened it calmly, not wanting to betray his true intentions, lest the _probably-not-Randolph_ become aware of his suspicions. 

Harry leaned against the doorway, his left hand still grasping the door handle. William and Randolph were crowded around a desk at the far end of the room, leaning over something. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Dad, Uncle Randolph,” he said, per way of greeting. “What are you guys doing?” 

Randolph was the first to answer. “I’m showing your father the new _Firebolt_ prototype. Didn’t he tell you I finished it?” Randolph waved Harry over as he turned back towards the table. “Come here, take a good look at it.”

Harry nervously took a couple of steps forward, standing beside his father and on the opposite end from Randolph. He peered at the table for a moment, before his eyes widened and he gasped. 

William glanced over at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Oh! Harry. Didn’t see you there. When did you come in?”

Harry’s gaze never left the broomstick, but his mind whirred. He hadn’t been silent at all walking in. Surely his father had noticed. “Just now,” he murmured. William nodded, before turning back towards the Firebolt. 

Harry frowned. That was strange. Was his father alright? He bit his lip, his eyes narrowing at the broomstick in front of him, before he looked up to Randolph with a straight face. “Uncle Randolph, what’s it made out of?” Harry grasped the edge of the table and leaned forward, trying to seem eager when in fact this entire situation seemed off. 

Randolph chuckled, his eyes gleaming. Wait…

“Even though it's just a prototype, I’ll give you my best sales pitch!” Randolph chuckled again, before his voice toned upward, like he was announcing something to an audience, or trying to get someone to buy his wares in a crowded market. It seemed almost silly, given the quiet room they were in. 

“This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a streamlined superfine handle of _a-ash_ , treated with a diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its own registration number.” Harry watched with narrowed eyes as Randolph gained a pained look when mentioning the type of wood used, stuttering a little. 

Just as quickly, the pained look passed, and Randolph waved his hand at the tail of the broom. “Each individually selected birch twig in the brush has been honed to aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The Firebolt has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour in ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable Braking Charm.”

Harry couldn’t help but gawk, even though something seemed off to him. He glanced up at his father, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off the broom, before nodding. “That sounds really good, Uncle Randolph. Maybe I could try it sometime?” Harry intoned his voice to sound hopeful. “But not right now,” Harry paused, trying to sound down. “Mum said I have to help her unpack,” he fibbed. It did sound like something his mother would ask. Randolph seemed to agree, as he nodded. 

“Alright, Harry. But get permission from Alicia first. I don’t want to be on the other end of her wand,” Randolph grinned widely, and his eyes darted around the room, as though looking for someone who wasn’t there. Harry nodded stiffly, before pushing himself away from the desk and making his way to the door somewhat casually. 

Once he was out of the room, Harry bolted to the steel doors of the shed and raced back to the cottage, his breath sharp and footing hard against the dirt path. Hurrying into the house, he brushed through the living room quickly, startling his mother and Cookie, the house-elf, who were both there at the time of his arrival. 

He made it to the staircase before his mother got over her shock. “Harry William Portwood!” she screeched. No running in the house!” 

Harry ignored it and thundered up towards his room, where he hoped his trunk had been left. If not, he’d have to go searching for it, and that would take up precious time. Making his way down the hall, he entered the room he remembered to be his own, his gaze sweeping over every inch of the place before landing on his bed. He launched himself onto the trunk that was (thankfully) lying on his sheets. Not bothering to sit down, Harry rummaged through his trunk, grabbing everything he could think of that would help check and then remove foreign magical influences. 

He didn’t have access to a wand himself, but hopefully, his mother would listen to him when she asked her to help him. He’d have to bet on that, so he ignored wands and moved towards other possibilities. If it wasn’t charm or curse, but a potion or something similarly ingested, then he’d have to try a bezoar. If it didn’t clear up with that, then it most likely wouldn’t be fixable right then. Harry searched his trunk for his potion kit, and snatched his spare one out, before thumping the kit back into his trunk. Alright, _there_. If it wasn’t a charm nor a potion, what else could affect something to that scale? 

Narrowing his eyes, Harry gripped the sides of his trunk, before reaching in and plucking the one-and-only Grimm Anthology out of its confines. Harry quickly flipped through the book, desperate fingers trailing words and phrases that seemed to jumble in his mind. Angry, he snapped the book shut and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose his cool especially _now_ . Besides, he grumbled, he didn’t have anywhere to _start_ with, so he’d have to take the entire thing, anyway. Biting his lip, he tucked the book under his arm and reached once more into his trunk, picking out his mokeskin pouch. 

Harry took a deep breath, before adjusting everything; bezoar, book, pouch. He grit his teeth and rushed out the door; then downstairs, before calling to his mother.

“Mum, come quick! Something’s wrong with Randolph and Dad!” Harry careened into the living room, not stopping, before heading off towards the door as fast as he could. Alicia, to her credit, didn’t falter one bit, leaping to her feet and rushing out right behind him, her wand in hand. 

Harry was near-sprinting now, the Grimm Anthology relocated to his off-hand as he made his way to the industrial shed. His mother didn’t tell him to stop, but she did catch up and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. Harry didn’t pause, but he looked back at her, worry splashing across his features. She, on the other hand, looked calm and collected, with only an eyebrow raised out of place. He took the silent command to explain himself with a nod. 

“They were acting really weird,” he began, as they reached the steel doors. “Dad was just staring in a daze, and his spatial awareness was all over the place. Randolph, on the other hand…” Harry trailed off as they reached the doors. He stopped before them and looked up at his mother seriously. “He seems _off_ , Mum. I don’t really know what it is, but something’s not right. I walked into the room earlier, and he was strange. I think somethings affecting him.”

Harry sent his mother a concerned glance, and she simply nodded, wordless. He took that as a sign of belief, before opening the doors to the shed. Quiet. “They must still be in the office.” Harry scrunched up his features in confusion. “Why?” he muttered, walking over to the grey cube with the single door. 

Harry looked back at his mother before entering and returned her alarmed look. “I’ll open the door and run inside; you stun them before they do anything,” he whispered, leaning against the door heavily. Harry moved the book into his right hand and pressed his left palm on the door handle, easing it gently downwards. Once he felt the mechanism release, he burst through the door, running to the opposite side of the room. Alicia rushed in a second later, two stunners flying perfectly through the air. 

Once everything settled, Harry noticed with a frown that the two men hadn’t moved at all - save for slumping onto the ground. Sure, he hadn’t been gone long, but something was definitely wrong here. Harry quickly placed his book on a nearby table before nodding to his mother. 

While Alicia summoned two chairs from across the room, Harry pulled out his mokeskin pouch and rummaged through it, finally coming up with a Self-Inking Quill and a roll of parchment. He sat down on the floor while his mother levitated the prone forms of Uncle Randolph and his father onto the two chairs and bound them with ropes and Sticking Charms. Nodding once, he started making a list of every possible reason why Randolph had been acting so strange. 

He had charms and curses covered, and hopefully potions, too. The only possibilities he wasn’t very sure of was hopefully lying in front of him. Harry skipped to the third and fourth section of the Grimm Anthology. He wasn’t translating, simply reading, so the german wasn’t a problem. He made a note of the page every time the term ‘possession’ or something related to ‘full-body control’. He jotted down a few shapeshifters from the first two sections but added those that came up in the second half of the book, too. Ten minutes passed quickly.

Harry was almost finished with his list when he saw his mother summon Randolph’s wand, which zipped out of his pocket and into her hand. She did the same for his father, before turning to Harry expectantly. 

Harry made his way to the centre of the room with his own chair, before settling down beside his mother and in front of Randolph. His father was opposite his mother, and he nodded towards her, before pointing at Randolph. 

“ _Rennervate_ ,” she cast, pointing her wand at Randolph’s prone form. He shot straight up, looking around in a daze, before a crazed smile set on his face, and he stared blankly ahead. 

“Don’t worry Randolph, you passed out,” Harry lied. He needed Randolph to act ‘normally’, so his mother could see that something wasn’t right. 

Randolph grinned, and his eyes darted around the room before he shifted in his seat. It looked like the ropes didn’t bother him at all. “That’s alright. What did you think about the _Firebolt_ , Harry?”

Harry’s gaze searched Randolph’s face. The man was sweating profusely and biting his lip hard. His eyes never met Harry’s own, choosing instead to roam the room restlessly. They paused here and there, as though he had caught sight of certain things, before moving on aimlessly. Harry shook his head, _extremely_ weirded out. He looked over his shoulder at his mother, who was leaning back in her own chair and eying Randolph suspiciously. Harry scrutinized her for a moment more before sighing and turning back to the deranged wizard. He kept at it for a full minute before nodding imperceptibly, his mind made up. 

“Mum,” he said softly, pausing momentarily as he considered his options. His gaze scurried over Randolph’s person. “Cast…” he breathed in, and then out. “Cast _Indifferens_ : simple point-and-jab. Pale misty light.” Harry shifted in his seat and crossed his arms. “Should be harmless,” he commented. 

Alicia crossed her legs and fiddled with her wand, clearly mulling something over. Then she nodded. “You think it’s a Cheering Charm, then?”

Harry snorted, “Not really,” before shrugging. “But it’s as good a place to start as any. _Bonumchere_ shouldn’t have that,” he pointed at Randolph, “effect on people, but it’s possible it was messed up.” 

Alicia let out a strained laugh, and Harry gave her a weak smile in return before blinking once and looking back at Randolph. Harry grimaced. Randolph was looking worse and worse with every minute that passed. Multiple beads of sweat dripped down his chin, and his hollow cheeks looked a bit green. Alicia pursed her lips in displeasure before focusing her wand onto Randolph. She then cast the spell verbally, and it seemed to work just fine. Harry silently watched the misty bolt erupt from her wand-tip and glide across the air before splashing against Randolph’s face, where he seemed to almost hungrily inhaling the spell. Harry waited for a moment with bated breath, even though he was sure that the charm wouldn’t work. The mist surrounding the tied-up wizard dissipated, and Randolph grinned back unrepentantly, his eyes alight with madness. 

Harry deflated before he brought his sheet of parchment back up towards his face. “ _Distinguere,_ Mum,” Harry read. “Counter to the Compulsion Charm. Left-to-right, upwards flick. Pale green,” he listed off from memory. Alicia frowned in his direction, but he tried to ignore it, even though he knew he would have to give answers sooner or later. After a beat of silence, his mother shook her head and pointed her wand at Randolph, who simply set her a crazed glance in return. 

She cast perfectly. The green light sailed softly before dissipating against him. Randolph’s grin grew even wider. Harry swore violently. 

“Language, Harry.” Alicia reprimanded him with an eerie voice. Harry furrowed his brow. In fact, she seemed oddly calm about this. 

Harry took a step towards Randolph and he felt his mother tense in her seat behind him. Harry gritted himself, before waving her off. She didn’t ease up, but made no move to stop him. Harry leaned forward, carefully maintaining an arm’s length from Randolph as he inspected the man’s eyes. 

“His scleræ are clear,” Harry muttered after a heavy pause. “Not the Imperius Curse then…”

He heard a sharp intake of air coming from his mother before she hissed. “ _How do you know_ —”

Rather bravely, Harry cut her demand off with a raised hand. “But his pupils are dilated, so it could be something else.” Harry glanced at Randolph’s neck, where he spotted the bulging and inflamed veins that pulsed an angry purple. Harry shuddered. “It looks like the result of a potion, or something ingested, at least.”

Harry turned around, though he avoided his mother's incredulous and partly-incensed expression. “Mum, can you pry his mouth open? I’m going to give him a bezoar.” 

Alicia glared at him, and he winced, knowing that he would have to explain his intricate knowledge of dark curses to her later on. Hopefully, she would forget about it when this was over and done with. Harry looked back to Randolph, who continued to struggle, and he saw (out of the corner of his eye) Alicia point her wand at Randolph’s face before jabbing her wand downwards with a small flick.

Following his mother’s wand movement, Harry watched Randolph’s jaw drop forcibly. Harry frowned, opening up his pouch. Strange. It hadn’t seemed like a spell. Harry glanced at his father, who was still slumped in his chair, unconscious.

Harry then picked the bezoar out of the pouch and gingerly dropped it into Randolph’s mouth. He asked his mother for a cup of water and she complied, handing him a conjured cup. He pressed it to the tip of Randolph’s mouth and the man acquiesced, drinking the water thirstily. Harry watched him swallow the bezoar before nodding and standing back. Alicia shut his jaw closed with a sharp flick of her wand, and Harry fell into his chair to wait. 

“Seven minutes,” he muttered, picking up the Grimm Anthology once more, and leafing through it carefully. If whatever was influencing Randolph wasn’t a charm, nor a poison, then Harry would have to find possibilities elsewhere, and currently, few things spoke to him. 

He cleared his throat. “It could be many things affecting him, if not wizard-produced. It could be some natural illness, paranoia and terror, or he could be suffering from hallucinations, induced madness...” Harry trailed off into silence. “It could be a _possession_ , too,” he muttered under his breath, strained, almost involuntarily. 

The nine-year-old wizard swept through the pages of the Grimm Anthology, searching for the entries he knew to hold some information on one of the three ideas roaming through his head. He refused to acknowledge the last one, lest he somehow makes it true. 

“Natural causes…” Harry paused, frowning, as he glanced up at Randolph, who was struggling again. “It could be due to lack of sleep… possibly a _maere_ , through long term exposure,” Harry murmured, with his head firmly placed between the yellow pages of his book as he scoured the second (and largest) section of the Anthology, which pertained to ‘Beasts’. 

A long pause later, Harry shook his head. “No,” he reasoned, after taking a long look at Randolph and ignoring his mother’s concerned gazes. “This wasn’t something that developed with time; it’s not due to lack of sleep.” Harry kept his eye trained on the unnatural sight before him. “He doesn’t appear to be tired, so it suggests that this is something new, almost instant.”

Harry sighed, rubbing his nose bridge. “Natural induced terror seems more likely, a paranoia of sorts. Maybe he’s seen - or - heard what he believes to be an omen of death. Something that’s left him clearly rattled.” Harry took another long look at Randolph, his concerned filled face constantly returning to the man’s dilated pupils. 

“Or, “ Harry amended,” it could be that someone, or something, is bewitching him, making him see and hear things that aren’t really there, fear things that don’t exist. Visions and illusions, keeping him scarred.” Harry leaned forward in his seat. “But what did it? Chanced upon a creature, perhaps, that sent him into a crazed state? Or was it a wizard that cursed him? In either case, it's something that can influence his senses directly. But he recognized us somehow, so it isn’t a one-time thing. It’s constant manipulation. But if that was the case…”

Harry drew in a sharp breath. “Then... the thing that did this would have to have been in the same room as Randolph, constantly.” A heavy pause reigned while he contemplated. Alicia scrutinized Harry, but he ignored her, wrapped up in his own whirlpool of ideas. He hummed. 

Harry knew that all of his points were valid, and he listed them off in terms of severity. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “One: Gradual, accumulative anxiety and stress from lack of sleep or over-exhaustion, which could be caused by many things. Two: A complete terror and paranoia of something, which, again, could be caused by many things, like genuine fear of a beast or an omen of death. Three: Hallucinations and induced madness, thrust upon him by someone, or something, but which fluctuates between reality and vision, making it constant: meaning touch or line of sight.”

Harry knew that there might have existed another option, but he didn’t want to acknowledge the other possibility, the more dangerous one. Instead, he looked towards his mother, who was watching him with an air of confused approval. 

“Mum?” he prompted, weakly. “What do you think?”

Alicia alternated between Randolph and Harry, settling into a pensive expression, her wand tapping against her forearm constantly. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap.

“I…”

Tap. 

“I think the first is unlikely. Randolph has always taken good care of himself, and he would never let himself go like that. Besides, he isn’t experiencing potion addiction symptoms from Pepperup, and I doubt he’s been going long enough to get to this stage on determination alone. He would have collapsed from exhaustion. No,” she shook her head. “Whatever this is - it isn't natural.”

Harry waited for her opinion on the other two options, and she complied. “It’s not terror, either. He seems too cocky, I think. I don’t think it's paranoia, because Randolph was never the type to face his fear with a grin on his face.”

At that, if it was even possible, Randolph seemed to grin even wider. Harry shuddered, and Alicia’s face became stony. She gripped her wand hard in her hand, before rising and backing towards a wall. She pointed her wand out into the room and Harry got an idea of what she was trying to do. 

“Go for it,” he said to his mother. 

“ _Homenum Revelio, Anima Revelare, Vitae Revelo.”_

Harry sucked in his breath, watching his mother for any change in his expression. He caught it, and his own eyes widened, while his mother’s mouth dropped open. 

“Five,” Alicia said, weakly. “There are five _things_ in front of me - in this room.”

Harry nodded. “Move Randolph to the corner, stand in front of him, repeat the charms.” 

“Why, Harry?! You don’t think...?” Alicia exclaimed, almost nervously. 

Harry shook his head. “I don't think—I _know_ . I just didn’t want to think it true,” he said, shakily rising from his seat and hobbling over to William, who was still knocked unconscious. He pulled his father towards the right wall, where Alicia had been backed up not a moment ago, and remained there, propping up the Grimm Anthology with one hand, and skimming through it, intent on finding anything he could about _possession._

He glanced up once at his mother, who was pointing her wand at Randolph and casting the spells over and over again like she couldn’t believe the results. 

“Mum?” he prompted.

Alicia drew a shaky breath, bringing her palm up to her forehead and wiping away a brow of sweat. “There’s two of him. How?! There are two _things_ in front of me, but it’s always him.” 

“Give me thirty minutes,” he said to his mother. “I need to find out _what_ kind of thing is in him, to begin with. Then we can focus on taking it out.” He gave her a worried once-over. “Sit down mum, you’re exhausted. He’s not going anywhere.”

Alicia nodded once, and edged backwards, before settling back down on her chair, though she kept everyone in her view. Harry didn’t blame her. When he’d found out about possession - _real_ possession - he too got a little paranoid. 

And so they waited. 

* * *

Harry opened the door to the office slowly, so as to not startle his mother. The room was much the same as when he left, a couple of hours ago to collect everything they would need to exercise and (or) purify Randolph’s body. They hadn’t been able to pinpoint the _exact_ kind of entity possessing Randolph but had managed to narrow it down to a couple of likely candidates, and so Harry had left for the cottage to gather the things they would need.

His mother was currently sitting in her customary chair, and his father was still knocked out in the corner of the room. Randolph had also been knocked out because it was too much of a risk to keep him awake - they figured it was safer to have him unconscious. Harry caught her eye as he walked in and he smiled weakly at her, before taking a place in his own chair. “I’ve got them,” he said, patting his pouch. Alicia gave him a once over and nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”

Clearing his throat, Harry stood up, placing his pouch on the ground and removing a short stick from inside of it, a rue twig. He placed that to the side and knelt, reaching inside his pouch again. He removed a small jar of sea salt, placing that to the side and returning to his shuffling. Finally, Harry pulled out a small sack of barley, along with a simple wooden bowl that was wide enough for washing. Harry set his pouch to the side and gathered everything into his arms, before setting off towards one of the empty tables in the office. He placed everything down, save for the bowl, which he brought over to his mother. 

“Fill it with conjured water, please,” he asked her. 

Alicia raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure conjured water is alright?”

Harry nodded. “It’s not used in the actual ritual,” he noted, “that’s what the salt over there is for. Conjured water is always pure, and that’s what we need it for.” 

Alicia seemed miffed at his knowledge of ritual rites, but said nothing on it, instead nodding and placing her wand at the tip of the bowl, muttering an incantation and watching the bowl itself fill with water. Satisfied, Harry moved the bowl back to the table and stood straight, before beckoning his mother over. They both stood side by side in front of the washing bowl. 

“Alright, so first, we need to properly cleanse our bodies before attempting anything to do with purification. The first step is pinning up your hair,” he nodded towards his mother, who conjured a small band and swiftly tied her hair up in a loose ponytail. 

Harry smiled at her, and she winked at him back. He laughed, shaking his head. “Next, we lose our shoes and socks. We need to be barefoot for this one.” Harry proceeded to remove his shoes and cast them aside into the corner of the room, with Alicia following soon after. 

“Now,” he prompted, “we need to wash our faces and hands in the bowl.” Harry gestured at his mother, and she nodded, reaching down to the bowl and cupping water, before washing her face lightly. She stood back and then rubbed her hands into the bowl. Harry followed thereafter. 

“Alright,” he beamed. “Now we get to the fun part. Finding out what it really is.” Harry made his way over to his pouch, dipping his hand in and returning with a brittle piece of parchment containing scriptures he had copied from an entry in the Grimm Anthology. 

Harry then made his way over to the prone form of Randolph, where he stood for a few seconds, before turning back to his mother. “Can you conjure a wooden cross? Nothing detailed,” he added, seeing her constipated face, “just the shape. It’s the symbol we need. It can be oak,” he said. Alicia nodded, before waving her wand in what he assumed was free-form conjuration since he had no idea what spell was specifically used to conjure _a wooden cross_. Somehow, Alicia ended up with a cross in hand, which she offered to Harry, only for him to shake his head. “Hold onto it, for now, I’ll ask it of you later.”

Harry sighed, before moving into position in front of Randolph . his mother followed, standing to his side on the left. He nodded towards her, and she flicked her wand at him, muttering _“Rennervate._ ”

Randolph jolted awake, and when his eyes laid on the cross, he didn’t seem afraid, or in pain. Harry frowned. Instead, the possessed wizard seemed... Apprehensive? Confused? Regardless, Harry almost wrote off _that_ kind of possession, considering he didn’t recoil from the sight of a cross. 

Sighing, he brought his parchment up in front of his own self, re-reading the notes on the pre-rites before nodding once, and shifting the paper over to his left, where he then pressed it against his chest, flatly. He looked at his mother and told her to follow his example. With his right hand, he calmly pressed his thumb, index, and middle fingers together, and pressed the last two remaining digits to the palm of his right hand. 

With this gesture, he pressed his three conjoined digits against his forehead, intoning, “ _Il nomine Patris_ ,” and then his hand pressed against his stomach, “ _et Filii,”_ he touched his left shoulder, “ _et Spiritus Sancti,”_ and finally his right shoulder. “ _Amen._ ”

He waited for his mother to finish, before nodding and reaching his right out to her, where she passed him the conjured cross. He thrust it forward, and then brought up the parchment flattened against his chest, before reading in a loud and clear voice. 

_“Princeps gloriosissime caelestis militiae, sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritalia nequitiae, in caelestibus.”_

A cold gust blew through the closed room. 

_“Veni in auxilium hominum, quos Deus ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit, et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio magno.”_

Alicia fidgeted to his left. 

_“Te custodem et patronum sancta veneratur Ecclesia; tibi tradidit Dominus animas redemptorum in superna felicitate locandas.”_

Randolph squirmed uncomfortably. 

_“Deprecare Deum pacis, ut conterat Satanam sub pedibus nostris, ne ultra valeat captivos tenere homines, et Ecclesiae nocere.”_

The oil lamps sputtered ominously. 

_“Offer nostras preces in conspectu Altissimi, ut cito anticipent nos misericordiae Domini, et apprehendas draconem, serpentem antiquum, qui est diabolus et Satanas, et ligatum mittas in abyssum, ut non seducat amplius gentes. Amen.”_

Harry waited for something to happen with bated breath, and when nothing did occur, he sighed, before stepping away and lowering the cross in his hand. 

“Well,” he nodded towards his mother. “It’s not demonic. Not _that_ kind, anyway.”

Alicia frowned, and he sighed again, before gesturing towards the bowl of water. “We’ll need to redo that for the next one. And the one after, I think.” She nodded, before moving towards the bowl and repeating the washing process. Harry took his time, trying to ease the feeling of _something_ out of his body. He didn’t quite like it. It felt like the roof was made of glass and he knew something was standing on top of it, peering down. He shuddered, before turning to his mother, who, by the look on her face, felt the same discomfort.

“Alright mum, this one is a simple ritual circle, _Elder Futhark_. I’ll place Randolph in the middle of the room, so can you go planning out this sequence?” Harry handed her a slip of parchment from his robes. Alicia raised an eyebrow at him. 

“ _Algiz - Eihwaz - Naudiz - Isaz - Thurisaz - Fehu - Sowilo,”_ Alicia gained a contemplative look. “Warding off evil, Defense, Survival, Reinforcement, Self-Discipline, Luck and Success?”

Harry grinned at his mother. “It works, right?”

She looked impressed, and he beamed internally. “It does, and they repeat on Seven. This is a good start, but It’s lacking a bit of continuity from Thurisaz to Fehu. I think it’s best if _Isaz_ becomes _Thurisaz_ , and _Self-Discipline_ becomes _Awareness_ , which would make everything flow better.”

Harry nodded, having already pulled Randolph into the middle of the room, and cleared the space of a carpet. “Warding off evil, Defense, Survival, Self-Discipline, Awareness, Luck, and Success. Works for me.” The floor underneath the carpet was regular stone, so they had no trouble in carving out the runic circle.

Feeling proud of himself, Harry stood back from the circle, preferring to watch it from afar, considering there wasn’t much he could do. His mother had the wand to channel the intent and the magic, and he didn’t trust himself with one after everything he’d been through. 

Alicia then stood outside the circle, and she knelt down right behind it, making sure not to cross over with any part of her own self, lest the ritual decides to focus on her and not Randolph. The tip of her wand pressed against the first rune she carved in the circle - _Algiz -_ and her wand grew bright with a light similar to that of a Patronus Charm, save for the fact that this was _intended_ to _purify_. 

Harry’s breath caught at the sight, and he could feel the power rolling off the wand-tip, as the light from the wand poured into the runes, spreading equally on both sides to encircle the runes and coalesce at the opposite side of the circle at the same time.

The runes glowed for a full seven seconds before they dimmed slightly, and Harry sighed. It had worked. He looked at his mother, and she nodded, before standing up. She didn’t speak but held her fingers up to indicate ‘7’. Harry nodded. Seven minutes. 

He sat down on a chair and rested his head on his fist, before letting his eyes roam over Randolph's figure. He didn’t seem to be in pain, or even major discomfort. In fact, he seemed rather disgusted? His face was morphed into a sneer, and he looked around at the runes in distaste. Harry wondered about that. First, the Christian Cross was disregarded, and now the Germanic Elder Futhark was being _sneered_ at. Harry’s mind raced. What being would react like _that_ to either one of those?

Seven minutes passed, and the ritual light slowly dimmed into nothing. Harry groaned, but he got up regardless to prepare for the following ritual. He groaned and wailed, but eventually got the purification rite done again, and now he was ready to prepare the following ritual. His mother seemed equally exhausted. 

He smiled at her gently, before touching her drooping shoulder. “Mum,” he said, shaking her a bit. She was currently collapsed in her own chair. He patted her on the head. “I don’t need you to perform the next one with me, Mum. I will need you for the last one, though, so get some rest. I’ll wake you up If I need something.”

Alicia seemed too tired to answer because she simply nodded and dropped her head. Harry smiled at her again before he stood up and made his way back to the table. He picked up the salt, then the bowl of water, and then the barley, along with the rue stick. 

Moving towards Randolph, he placed the bowl on the ground, before tilting the jar of sea-salt into the bowl and watching a cloud of particles shift through the clear water. He dipped one butt of the rue stick into the bowl and used that to mix up the salt with the water, creating an almost misty substance. He set that aside together with the barley, and instead stood up with the rue stick in hand, the damp section against his palm. He held it up high like a torch before he realized he had forgotten to have a flame ready. Sighing, he made his way over to his mother’s form, patting her robe pockets for her wand. 

“Sorry Mum,” he whispered. “But I need to light something. I’ll give it right back,” he said, finally prying the wand out of her outer pocket. She shifted, and he tensed, but nothing came of it, so he focused back on the stick (and wand) he was holding. Holding out the rue stick with his left, he pointed his mother’s wand away from him and towards the ceiling, so that the burst of flame he cast would capture the dry end of the rue stick and not his fist. 

“ _Incendio_ ,” he muttered, moving his wand in a rough left-to-right outline of a speartip, or a candle flame. Harry watched in awe as the fire burst forward gently, encasing the rue stick. He waited a few seconds for it to catch fire, and when it did, he whipped the wand away, gutting the charm and cancelling the spell. He quickly set the wand onto his mother’s lap and moved forward, the torch in hand. He paused before the sack of barley, trying to remember in which order to proceed before he hesitantly reached into the sack and brought out a fist full of barely in his right. He walked up to Randolph, who was eying him with wide eyes, full at attention. The man’s mouth moved open, but no sound came of it. 

Harry, seeing that this was provoking some reaction from the possessed wizard, tried to remember the origins of this ritual as he swiftly cast the barley over Randolph, watching the grains spill over his form and onto the ground. Satisfied, he took a step back and leaned down next to the bowl of ‘sea-water’, before plunging the still-burning rue torch into the bowl, effectively dousing it. A ridiculous amount of steam arose and spread throughout the room, yet Harry still managed to make out the form of Randolph. He set the rue torch to the side and grabbed the bowl of sea-water, taking a step forward and around Randolph, before slowly pouring its contents onto the man, who shivered at the lukewarm liquid that dribbled down his scalp and onto his robes. 

Harry returned to his spot, humming a low baritone that permeated the silence of the room - not even Randolph was making a sound now - before sweeping out his arms and legs in a rather crude imitation of the required ritual dance for the… _Katharmos_.

 _Greece_. 

‘So whatever the being is, it’s Grecian, or closely related enough to recognize the ritual,’ Harry thought, a smile encroaching on his face as he finished the dance and stepped back, making sure not to knock any of the nearby items over. 

Harry felt a heavy presence once more settle onto his shoulders as the drain of the ritual hit him, but this time it wasn’t as heavy, or indifferent. It seemed interested, though it was keeping its distance for some reason or another. Harry sighed. He was probably going insane from all the different kinds of magic he was forcing through his own self. It didn’t help that he was unfamiliar with most of the practices, too. Unfamiliar and otherwise uninterested, he pondered, wondering if that was the reason it had been so tiring. Did belief in the ritual make it easier to accomplish? Harry supposed so, though he did believe they worked, simply because the brothers Grimm had attested that they did. Was it belief in their origins, perhaps? Harry shook his head, walking over to his mother and shaking her awake. 

Alicia groaned, and he grimaced. “Sorry, Mum. I need you for this next one” She groaned again, nursing her head between her hands. “But don’t worry, this is the last one. I promise.”

That seemed to give her strength, because she stood up, and noticed the used bowl and the wet Randolph, immediately conjured another bowl, and began filling it with water. She looked at her son. 

“Can I vanish those grains and dry him, or no?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, please. I’m pretty sure the thing possessing him is Grecian in origin because it seemed to recognize the ritual, even though it didn’t do anything to it.”

Alicia scowled at Randolph, who seemed more sedated after the Grecian cleansing ritual, and didn’t respond in any way to the look. “What if this last one doesn’t work?” she asked. 

Harry shrugged, but his face looked pained at the thought. “Then we’re going to have to assume that he isn’t possessed, but simply _not_ Randolph. Polyjuice would’ve worn off by now, but it could be an illusion or something similar.”

Alicia nodded. “Alright. What do we do for this one, then?”

Hary scrunched up his nose. “Knock him out - we’re doing this one outside.” 

Randolph seemed to perk up at that, his dilated pupils peering intently at Harry, who acted indifferent to the attention, though inwardly his mind was whizzing with the possible information. Grecian, and outside, in the forest. He had an idea, but if it was right, then hopefully this wouldn’t turn out as bad as he thought it would.

He nodded towards his mother, who swiftly shot a stunner at Randolph. The man collapsed, and she quickly levitated his prone form out the door and into the shed, before leaving entirely. Harry nodded at his father’s slumped form, before collecting everything and moving outside, too. 

He saw his mother place Randolph near the edge of the clearing, and he frowned as a thought entered his mind. Randolph had been spending his time here working on the Firebolts, and so he shouldn’t have even had a chance to become possessed. He would have no reason to leave, so he shouldn’t have gotten possessed anywhere else. The goblin steel parts were owl-delivered, and anything else he would’ve done the same for. The birch twigs were ordered, Harry knew that much, seeing as Randolph didn’t have the means to correctly measure and make them here. Randolph etched all the runes into the broom shaft himself, and the ash for the broom handle…

Oh. _Oh._

Sighing, Harry ran up to his mother, prodding her on the shoulder to get her attention. She twirled around, and he looked at her with a serious expression. “We need an _ash_ tree, mum. I think I know what possessed Randolph, and why.”

Alicia’s face contorted into a confused look, and Harry tried to explain. “It’s like the Bowtruckles, you know? When someone touches their tree uninvited, they get attacked. Well, Randolph here,” he gestured towards the still-bound Randolph, “probably tried to cut down another ash tree for materials, and he got unlucky with the one he picked.”

Alicia nodded. “What are we going to do, then?”

Harry grimaced. “We need to find another tree, I think, to replace the one lost. I’m leaning on two possible outcomes, depending on which being possessed, Randolph. One would have been doing it for revenge against the slight in general, which means we need to make up for it with a new addition to the forest, no matter the type. The other being likely had a more personal connection to the tree because it was an _ash tree_ , so it would be best to find a new one and then perform the ritual.”

“I’m thinking it’s best if we _plant_ a _new_ tree that happens to be _ash_ , that way we cover both options,” Alicia said. 

Harry nodded. “Then, hopefully, the being possessing him will leave his body and return to its own self.'' Harry paused, before snapping his fingers in exclamation. “I’ll need to prepare a Grecian ritual of growth for the sapling, seeing as it,” he pointed towards Randolph, “doesn’t like _Elder Futhark_.” 

Randolph surprised both mother and son by nodding avidly, then spitting on the ground at the mention of the Germanic runic alphabet. Harry glanced at the man oddly. “Why are you in _Germany_ of all places if you _hate Germanic magic_ , for Merlin’s sake?”

Randolph shrugged, an uncaring look settling on his face, as Harry snorted and Alicia _giggled._ Harry looked at her, deeply concerned, and wondering if powering the ritual by herself had been too steep of a toll. 

She caught his look and smacked him on the arm, her stony expression returning. Harry smiled inwardly, before nodding. “Alright, mum, can you go into the forest and find an Ash tree? From there, just get a cutting, or if you can, a seed. I’ll be looking for a good ritual,” Harry said, heading off towards the cottage. Alicia nodded, quickly stunning Randolph and placing a tracking charm on him, just in case, before wandering off into the forest, her wand already out and casting locator charms. Randolph simply slumped in his chair upon being stunned and remained there.

* * *

Harry watched from the sidelines as Alicia led the sheep down the designated pathway, a short strip designated by white stones marking the way to the altar. The altar, a simple white slab of pure marble, lay beseechingly at the foot of the passageway. To Harry’s right, Randolph sat, still bound, his eyes wide with something akin to happiness, or perhaps reverence, he could not say. To Harry’s left, a great basin of bronze lay against the floor, with a huge, roaring fire burning hungrily, consuming the coals and firewood placed inside with ominous veracity. Harry hummed lightly, but stayed silent, watching his mother lead the bleating sheep down the path. The animal was a perfect specimen, and it had dark black wool, as was traditional for offerings to this specific deity.

Harry grinned at his mother, who had an extremely concentrated look upon her face. Even though she currently had her home in England, Harry knew that his mother’s family originated in Italy, and thus by default, this deity was important to her history too, as the goddess had been adopted by the Romans of Old. Alicia was dressed in a shimmering white robe of cotton, and above her head lay a conjured wicker basket, the ritual knife, the Grimm’s ritual knife, lay inside, ready to be used. 

Harry smiled at the feeling in the air. It was different from the other rituals, in a certain way. It had a different scent, touch, taste and presence to the one they did at Samhain, more refined, defined, powerful. It had a very distinctive form to the other two simpler, yet contrasting rituals they had done before - the exorcism and the ritual circle. Harry shivered at the power in the air. It was almost tangible. 

After a few more steps, his mother and the sheep reached the altar, and Harry braced himself for the next few seconds. The sheep, domesticated but used to human contact, had been bought a couple of hours ago after Harry had finished his research on Grecian rituals, most of which involved sacrifice to a deity. The black sheep was raised into the marble through a couple of wooden steps by the side and then made to lay down, with its stomach facing inwards. The lamb was then fed a variety of things, and several assorted minor rituals proceeded to prepare the animal for the sacrifice.

A few minutes later, his mother’s back straightened, and she nodded, reaching up with her hand and picking up the basket, gently placing it to the side as she drew the gleaming silver-pink blade.

After a few moments, Harry coughed, and Alicia nodded, raising her hands up above her head as she began the prayer. 

“Goddess of the Earth, _Gaea_ , I am devoted to you and honour you with my prayers and actions. Both beautiful children and beautiful harvests come from you, _Anesidora_. The gift of life and taking it back, for all of us, is your doing. A happy person is one you favour. That person has it all. Today, I humbly ask that you shine this favour upon me, for I seek to right a wrong slighted against one of your children. I seek your blessings for growth and fertility in the ground around me. At dusk today I ask you to accept this offering,” Alicia intoned, her blade rising higher and higher, until it reached a precipice, before it fell swiftly downwards towards the neck of the black sheep, the ritual dagger plunging deeply into its neck before being twisted violently, the sudden movement flicking drops of blood onto his mother’s face. As the blade pierced the animal’s neck, his mother let out a cry in a high, shrill tone, as was required by the ritual.

Harry gave her a look filled with awe. She was breathless, heaving from overexertion of her voice along with the magic that was probably coursing through her body. She carried a grim look upon her face, which was only accentuated by the flecks of blood across her visage. Harry could only stare dumbly as the feeling in the air thickened, and Harry shivered.

After a few moments, the thick feeling subsided, though it remained present. Harry nodded to his mother, though she needed no prompt, already having begun collecting the blood from the sacrificed sheep into a pail. The blood was then poured all over the altar, where it dripped and pooled, before reaching the ground below it. 

Harry watched his mother trembling with shaking arms at the sight, so he stood up quietly and took the knife from her, guiding her back to her own prepared seat, where she looked back at him weakly. Somehow managing to stomach the sight of so much blood, Harry instead comforted his mother, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving her a quick hug. 

He retreated back to the altar, and proceeded to butcher the sheep, rather sloppily, but not bad for a first-timer. Harry collected the organs, bones and some other inedible parts into the same pail, and made his way over to the now roaring fire which had been made for these offerings. Nodding his head at the flame, he threw the body parts into the fire, muttering a short prayer to _Gaea_ in hopes that it would help the process. 

Harry returned to the sheep; the meat was removed, though he simply asked Cookie to take it and use it for something. Harry knew that it was a tradition for the leading figures of the ritual, in this case, either him or his mother, to taste the meat on the spot, but he reasoned that it was hardly the most important section, so it could be skipped. 

Stepping away from the altar, Harry ignored everything, moving instead to the opposite side of the burning and towards the small basin of water that he used to wash his hands in. He returned to the altar, picking up the carcass of the sheep, and summoned Cookie, who gladly accepted it.

“Don’t worry about dealing with it, I’ll take care of it later,” Harry said. 

Instead of agreeing, Cookie shook her head. “No, no, no. I’s be skinning and preparing. You’s rest, Young Master Harry.” 

Harry simply gave her a weary smile, knowing that she felt bad about not being able to do anything since Randolph had been possessed. The elf bobbed her head, the sheep carcass floating ominously behind her, before disappearing with a ‘pop’, taking the sheep with her. Harry sighed at the state of his clothes and removed his outer robes and shirt, before washing himself in the basin again. 

Harry returned to his mother, who was currently somewhat over her shock of having sacrificed a living being. He patted her shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze. She smiled up at him, and he felt his increasingly morbid day brighten. Picking her up, he moved her over to the basin, where she replaced the bloodstained water with clear liquid instead and washed her warms and face. Harry nodded, seeing that she was feeling better, before turning back to the altar. He paused, wondering if he was meant to clean it before he realised it was a _table_ , not marble. It would revert eventually, he decided. With a pat on the back, Harry sent his mother off to the cottage, telling her to get rest. She had protested a bit, but after seeing her nine-year-old son’s unimpressed look, caved in with a laugh and walked all the way back up the dirt path to the cottage.

Harry, on his part, moved towards Randolph, who was still in a dazed state. For some reason, the man refused to speak, or rather, the nymph possessing him refused to speak. It was rather annoying, but Harry simply sighed in exhaustion, raising an eyebrow at the being in front of him.

“Happy?” Harry asked, looking at Randolph intently. To his relief, the wizard nodded, his peaceful look never leaving his face. “What if the seed doesn’t grow?” Harry questioned, but the possessed wizard never showed any signs of hearing him, choosing instead to stare over behind them at the small space in front of the clearing border that contained a ring of white stones, the marking for the planting place of the new ash tree. Hopefully, the ritual had worked. Although Harry did believe in some sort of higher power - he thought there to be several, in fact - the thought of an actual _Goddess_ giving someone her blessing never really crossed his mind. He simply assumed it was like the other sacrificial rituals that interacted with magic, and which they had designated a name to. 

“You won’t go wandering off?” he asked, still somewhat wearily. Randolph shook his head tightly, and Harry nodded, before setting off towards the cottage. He made sure to pack up anything important, including the scrolls and books he had brought with him, the ritual dagger (ever pristine and now slightly pinker), and the small bronze water basin, which hadn’t been conjured. The rest would revert overnight, and Randolph could probably figure something out. Maybe he’d sleep in the trees. 

With a sigh, Harry drifted into the house, dropping off the items he was carrying at different points, before reaching his room, only carrying the ritual knife with him, as that was in his pouch. The books and scrolls had been left on the couch, and the basin on the table, after being poured out onto the grass while he walked. 

He opened the door to his room and slipped inside, and after a great many hours spent dealing with magic, he was ready to collapse onto his bed with a heavy sigh, but not before rubbing his face vigorously with his hands, trying to dispel the weariness from his muscles. At least the day had been productive, in a sense. 

* * *

“Let the bushy cliff of the dryads be silent, and the springs from the rock, and the mingled bleatings of the mother ewes, for Pan himself plays on his melodious pipe, running his moist lip over the joined reeds. All around they have started the dance with their fresh feet, the hydriad nymphs and the hamadryads, and the children of the Earth Mother herself, the _Meliae_.”

Harry felt the air change with every word spoken, and before he knew it, Randolph had slumped, and he was careening towards the ground. Harry startled forward to catch him, and his mother whipped out her wand, only to be stopped as he no longer fell, instead gently lowered to the ground by a woman who simply shimmered into view.

Harry’s breath caught as he looked upon the woman - no - the _Meliad_ , only for his eyes to be covered immediately by a pair of hands he recognized as his mother’s. 

“Mum?” he called, confused. 

His mother ignored him, choosing instead to address the currently beaming nymph. “Please, if you would cover yourself? My son is but a child, and I do not wish for him to be subjected to such views at a young age.” His mother’s dry voice rang through the air, and Harry felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. He hadn’t even had time to see anything before his eyes were shut, surely his mother knew that?

“ _Mum!?”_ Harry exclaimed, rather scandalized. “I didn’t see anything, promise.”

He heard his mother’s dry huff. “Good. I would’ve been disappointed in you otherwise.”

Harry turned himself around to stare at his mother, who released her hands from around his face as he looked up at her. “You know I wouldn’t, Mum, “ he said, rather honestly, considering he was a bit hurt his mother even joked about it. “You raised me better than that,” he pointed out, his hackles raised. 

Alicia smiled at him, before pinching his cheek. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” He wriggled out of her grasp but didn’t turn around, either, until his mother said he could. 

_You can turn around, little one_. A tune rang through the air, sweet like honeysuckle, and as fresh as the air of a forest. Harry turned around, not really knowing what language the voice was speaking in. 

_I’m sorry I have to speak like this, but I doubt you two know Greek, and I have never bothered to learn any other languages, seeing as I rarely chance upon humans._ The voice gained a dual-tone, a sharp, clear picture of _intent_ which battered his mind like thunder. 

His knees buckled, and his overwhelmed mind feebly tried to make sense of the _pure_ _meaning_ being forced into his head, while his ears picked up another noise, a melodious, sweet sound which Harry realized, with a jolt, was the nymph’s voice. He frowned. No recognizable words left her lips, yet the meaning behind her sweet tone resonated in his skull like a stampede of angry Erumpents. 

Harry gazed at the nymph, who was currently leaning idly against her new ash tree - Harry still had trouble acknowledging that it had grown so large overnight, but he pushed those thoughts out of his head. The first thing that came to Harry’s mind was that she was very beautiful. Eerily so. With soft features and warm brown eyes, the nymph stared back at him, her lips quirking in amusement at his wonder. She tilted her head back, her long shimmering brown-green locks curling around her form like a small cape, and _laughed_ , a tinkling, beautiful noise that made Harry want to drop at her feet and commit to servitude for the rest of his life if only to be able to hear that laugh one more—

‘STOP!’ His mind roared, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the nymph and towards his mother. He strained for a few seconds, before managing, and was instead looking at his mother’s face, which was wrought with worry. 

“Harry?” she asked, kneeling down and coming level with him. 

Harry took a deep breath, before letting out a wild grin at his mother and jumping into her arms. “Don’t worry Mum, you’re way prettier than she is,” he complimented her, intentionally misplacing her worry, to which she burst into a laugh was just as good, if not better, than the nymphs. Probably because she didn’t need magic to make it sound amazing, Harry reasoned. 

He felt his mother’s chest rumble as she spoke. “Well, now that you have returned to your own body, would you mind answering why you did what you did?” Alicia’s voice gained an undercurrent of steel. “Possessing Randolph and bewitching my husband?”

If anything, the nymph sounded ashamed at that last part. Her voice let out again, a magical symphony which sought to enrapture Harry, but he grit his teeth and pulled away from its influence, hugging his mother tighter. _I never meant to ‘bewitch’ you husband, as you put it. If you’d like, I can remove the spell from him. It was simply because he had started to suspect something was wrong. By then I hadn’t finished punishing the man who cut down the trees of my forest, so I needed more time. But now my revenge has been sated, and the slight has been fixed._

Harry nodded into his mother’s shoulder, coming to terms with the reasoning. Randolph had cut down the trees, and she had retaliated. A stray thought then surfaced in his mind, and he voiced it. “Are you _Meliae_? Or a hamadryad?

The nymph snorted, though it sounded strangely graceful. _If I were a hamadryad - a lesser nymph, then I would’ve died as soon as my tree was cut, little one. The lesser ones are not capable of possession, or anything, really. They lack a true connection to the Flame of the West._ _So yes, I am one of the Meliae. The only one in this forest, though there are a few other nymphs, lesser and greater._ The nymph said, before growing silent. 

Even though he was distraught that one of his guesses had been shot down, Harry perked up at the new information, instantly reaching into his pouch and removing spare parchment and quill, and copying everything the _Meliae_ said down perfectly. After finishing, he paused. “After you release my dad from that spell, do you think I could ask you some questions, Ms Meliae?”

The tinkling laugh was back, but Harry was used to the magic surrounding the nymph and managed to ignore it. _Yes, little one. I can answer your questions, though perhaps another day, for I am too tired to do much beyond the reversal of my own magic. But I will return, and share with you my knowledge. Think of it as repayment for this beautiful addition to this forest. It feels like Mother’s magic and a little bit like home, and for that, I thank you._

Harry nodded stiffly, and he heard some rustling behind him as the nymph moved. His mother removed herself from the grapple, seeing it as no longer necessary, and walked away, chatting in a low tone with the nymph.

Before he could forget, he turned around and waved at the nymph who was walking aside his mother, both heading towards the shed, where William had been left. “Ms Meliae!” he called. The nymph turned around and smiled at him, her entire face beaming. He felt a little bit of his heart melt and his cheeks heat up but asked the follow up all the same. “What’s your name?”

The nymph faltered for a second, genuine confusion crossing her face before she brightened once more. _Names have power, little one. As such, be wary of giving yours away in full._

Harry frowned, and the nymph must have noticed his quickly forming downcast expression because she corrected herself. _But I will entrust you with mine. I hope you guard it closely, little one._

Harry nodded fiercely, and the nymph laughed again. _My name is Melia_ , _little one._

“My name is Harry!” he announced, proudly. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Melia!”

Harry caught his mother’s approving smile and he grinned, while the nymph waved in response to his greeting. 

_It was nice meeting you too, little Harry._

* * *

“Your Majesty, If I may?” The approaching armoured figure said, sweeping into a low bow as he did. 

The searing cold presence on the throne gestured with a wave for the guard to report. The figure nodded, before speaking in a worried, yet clear, tone. “Summer draws near our borders, my Lady, but they remain quiet. Too quiet. I believe,” he lowered his voice, “that they are playing some sort of long-term game. I do not know if we have the forces capable of repelling whatever they are planning this time. The last attack has left us in a disarray. We—”

He was halted by the raised hand of the Queen of the Winter Fae, whose cold exterior moulded briefly into one of passive contemplation, before returning to a harsh indifference. “We have our own plans in place, rest assured. It is only a matter of time before they come into play. If Summer dallies too long, we will take them by their throats, and they will have never seen it coming,” the Queen finished with a vicious smirk. 

“Of course, your Majesty _._ ” The guard bowed low, before being dismissed with a wave. 

The Queen returned to her contemplation, taking a few moments to peer into the mortal world before nodding, satisfied. She hummed a harsh, brittle tune, and interlaced her fingers before an inhumane smile began to stretch across her admittedly beautiful features.

“ _Soon…_ ”

* * *

Harry grinned as he jogged down the dirt pathway, veering to the right at the last moment and moving past the industrial shed. He continued his journey towards the edge of the clearing, pausing for a moment to touch the bark of the new ash tree with a wistful smile on his face. He quickly moved past the ring of white stones, though, and entered the Black Forest, moving silently and easily through the roots and nimbly avoiding the many trunks interlaced throughout the shimmering ground. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked a little farther, always following the sun, straight ahead, like Melia had told him to. He wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to talk to him, but he figured it must have been about his questions, so he had nodded and agreed. 

She had approached him two days ago, right after his father had been released from the spell, and whispered to him the time and place for their next meeting. She had an almost worried expression, and he had frowned, agreeing almost immediately. 

_It is of utmost importance, little Harry._ She had said, leaning away and waving to everyone, before drifting off back into the forest, where they hadn’t heard from her since. 

Strangely enough, his mother, father and Randolph never brought up the incident again. They seemed almost eager to forget about Melia, and whenever Harry would inform his mother that he was going to be spending the day outside, she would get a look of mild constipation before her face cleared and she nodded. 

They also didn’t seem to talk much about the rituals, and though he didn’t expect his father or Randolph to remember much, he couldn’t quite understand why his mother seemed so against the idea. Whenever he would bring the topic of that evening up, Alicia would, again, look pained, before she shook her head, saying that it was best not to speak of such things out loud. 

Harry was confused, and currently, the only person - or being - he felt that could give him answers, was funnily enough, the one who caused the entire problem in the first place. 

_No_ , he amended, Randolph too had some blame. Harry was pretty sure that the broomstick maker had started to order ash for his work instead of collecting it naturally, which was understandable - Melia must’ve convinced him. Or maybe his mother did, not wanting a repeat incident. Either way, Harry doubted the issue would arise again anytime soon. 

Sighing, Harry paused and looked around. He had been walking in a straight line, and so a quick 180° was all he needed to return to the clearing, but he felt compelled to _stop_ and _wait._

He did so for a few minutes, and just as it seemed his venture into the forest would bear no fruit, he heard a rustle behind him. Already on edge, Harry snapped around, coming face-to-face with…

 _Hello, little Harry_ , Melia said. Harry nodded, silent for a moment before he croaked out. “Hello, Melia.”

The nymph beamed at him, and a little bit of his heart fluttered. _You are getting better at resisting the magic in my voice. Very few mortals can, so I must applaud you._ As she said this, she clapped happily, and Harry felt a smile grow on his face, before he hardened. 

“You said you wanted to speak with me—” Melia nodded “—well, what is it?”

_I think you have already noticed your parents behaviour, no?_

Harry nodded, confused. “Yeah, but what does—” He paused, then looked Melia straight in the face. She seemed almost uncomfortable. “You,” he muttered. “You put them under a spell?” His voice cracked. “Why?”

Melia was squirming now. _Please, little Harry. Do not fret. I have caused them no harm, and it was not with ill intentions in mind._ A small part of him felt relieved at her words, but he squashed it in favour of glaring at her. 

“Why?” he repeated, meeting her gaze with palpable anger. Melia seemed shocked, and she was quick to raise her hands in an assuaging manner. _All will be explained, little Harry. Please, listen before you judge._

Harry flinched before he nodded. Melia deflated, relieved, before her smile returned, though it seemed apprehensive. _Come_ , she said. _Let us sit._

Confused, he nodded, before looking at where she was gesturing. A little ways away there was a small space void of trees, littered instead by a circle of mossy logs, with one being larger and more akin to a throne than a stool. He made his way over silently, glancing occasionally at Melia, trying to gauge whether this was a trick or not, and the likelihood of him falling under a spell. Steeling himself, he sat down on one of the smaller logs, and Melia took a seat across him on the throne like seat. She crossed her legs and leaned back onto her throne comfortably, while Harry had to settle for resting his hands on his knees awkwardly. 

“So,” he began. “Why did you bewitch my parents and Randolph. We planted another tree, didn’t we? Why are you still angry?” Harry spouted these questions, hoping to understand just what reason Melia would have to bewitch them. He chanced a glance at the nymph, and was shocked by her hurt expression. Instantly, he wanted to comfort her and apologise for his words, but he grit his teeth and stared at her impassively, waiting for a response.

Melia sighed, before meeting his gaze. _I am not angry at you, little one. I am not angry at all, in fact. I did not perform the same spell as I did on your father, so do not worry. They aren’t being controlled._ Here she paused. _I assume your kind have memory altering spells?_

Harry nodded, but said no more.

Melia smiled slightly. _Then you have some idea of what I have done. Unfortunately, your parents and Randolph cannot be allowed to keep their memories of their encounter with me._

Harry began to protest, but she shut him off with a raised hand. _It is for the safety of both worlds. Do you know the reason why ‘wizards’ hide from those without magic_?

Harry nodded, remembering the lessons he had been having with his mother about the very thing. “They would simply ask us to solve all their problems, or even grow afraid like they had in the past. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

Melia nodded, and she seemed almost melancholic. Harry blinked, and it was gone. Then, she spoke. _The exact same thing happens with the mythological and the mortal. Mortals would constantly look to their deities for help, even more so than before, and nothing would be accomplished, or they would grow spiteful, and their hateful belief in the gods would corrupt the existence of the gods themselves._

Melia continued, ignoring the look of shock on Harry’s face. _Or, mortals and deities might get along, like they have in the past. It is a very fragile possibility, and therefore we are better off leaving things as they are now. Mortals know of us, but very few believe deeply in our existence. We are mostly content with simple acknowledgement as a part of history - any other needs are satisfied by our connections to the modern world, the_ Flame of Western Civilization _, or by the belief in us through those in the know._

Harry was stumped, and he cleared his throat, trying to process everything. “So…what about me?” he let out, after a moment of silence. Melia smiled. 

_Something tells me you would do well with the information of our existence. I do not know why, but I feel compelled to leave you with your memories._

Harry faltered. “Would you still be alright with answering questions?”

Melia laughed, and Harry’s face burned. _Of course, little Harry. We can meet everyday, if you so wish. I do not believe your mother will raise much argument._

Harry frowned. “But what about the beasts in the forest? Surely it would be best if she knows where I am?”

Melia shook her head, dismissing his concern. _There is no need. I will protect you, little Harry. Few things dare to cross me in this part of the forest, especially so close to the magic of your home._

Harry flushed, but nodded. Overall, he was rather happy with the outcome. Either way, even if he hadn't been, there wasn't much he could do about the situation, so he simply accepted it and adapted. “Oh, ok then,” he muttered.

Melia smiled warmly, before patting the seat next to her. Harry glanced at her, bewildered, but she simply nodded, so he made his way over to her side. Melia smiled again, before making herself comfortable. Harry sighed, but a content smile washed over his face as he listened to the immortal nymph. 

_Now, little Harry. Let me tell you about the Greek gods.._.

* * *

Harry was back in the forest, except this time, it was under the cover of darkness. With his copy of the Grimm Anthology tucked under his arm, he swiftly dodged amongst the trees, guided forward by a distant flickering light. As the bright flame drew closer, Harry slowed down, easing himself into a peaceful gait. He spotted Melia sitting at her ash throne, watching the fire peacefully. Harry approached the encampment, and let out a small greeting. 

“Hello, Melia. How have you been?”

Melia looked up, surprised, before smiling. Harry felt the magic try to enrapture him, but he simply shrugged it off, already used to it by now. The nymph patted the seat beside her, before returning his greeting. 

_Hello, little Harry. What brings you here tonight? We already met once today, do you not remember?_

At this, Harry faltered. “Oh,” he said eloquently. “I just thought you might like some company. I can always head back if I’m being a bother…”

Melia shook her head rather forcefully. _Not at all, little Harry. I enjoy your company._

Beaming, Harry took the previously offered seat, settling down in front of the fire that had been carefully contained amongst stones. He removed his book from under his arm and placed it carefully to the side, making sure that the wood beneath it was clean. Then, he stood, making his way towards the bright flame in the middle of the encampment. He patted his robes for a minute, before locating the very thing he wanted. Removing two identical strips of midnight black lambskin. He placed one to the side, before presenting the other to the fireplace. 

“To Hestia, Firstborn of Titans Cronus and Rhea, Goddess of the Hearth, Home, Domesticity, Family, and the State. Please accept my offering as gratitude for all the work you do.” 

Quickly, Harry tossed the first lambskin into the fireplace, and watched it be consumed by a bright, roaring fire. Harry knew what was supposed to happen, but he still was rather shocked at just how quickly the fire had consumed his offering. He glanced back at Melia and was happy to see genuine joy in her expression. 

Nodding once, already convinced of his actions, he picked the second strip of lambskin off the floor and tried to clear it of the leaves that had stuck to the skin when he placed it on the floor. After a minute of careful swiping, he nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the fire. 

“To…” Harry paused, a conflicted look coming up his face. He turned back towards Melia. 

“Melia, who are you?”

The nymph looked back at the young wizard confusedly, before coming to a realization. She was quick to dissuade him with a shake of her head. _Little Harry, you don’t need to offer me anything._

“But I want to,” he whispered, looking down at the lambskin in his hands. “Could you tell me who you are?”

Melia gained a pained look, before she nodded. _I…_ She paused. _I would normally give you a lecture - with examples - on identity in mythology and perception, but I think I can save you that for now._

Harry nodded eagerly, and Melia laughed. _Very well then. I shall tell you who I am._

There was a pause, and Harry didn’t dare make a sound. 

Finally, the nymph spoke. _I am Melia, daughter of Uranus and Gaea, nymph of the ash-trees of the Black Forest, mother to none._

Harry nodded, before turning back to the fire. He repeated that same sentence, throwing in the lambskin. A moment passed, and he heard a gasp behind him. Quickly turning around, he saw Melia in tears. Immediately worried, he rushed over to her. 

“What’s wrong? Did I do something bad?” Harry asked, eyes darting over her form, trying to find some injury or malady. 

Eventually, the nymph reigned in her tears to quiet sniffles. Harry stood there awkwardly, not quite sure if it was his fault or not she was crying. It certainly felt so. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, dejectedly. “You told me not to… and I didn’t listen.” Harry turned around and shuffled back to, his head hung in shame.

Just as he was about to sit down, a soft hand latched onto his wrist, and pulled him back. He stumbled and ended up sitting down on something soft with a warm body pressed against him. Harry blinked, realising he was being hugged. He looked up, confused. He saw Melia’s face, and there were tears in her eyes once more. Harry bit his lip, reaching up from Melia’s lap to wipe away her tears. “What’s wrong?” He asked again. Much to his shock, Melia shook her head. 

_Nothing, little one._ She noticed his confused gaze, and hugged him even harder. _Oh, you precious child_ , she said, tightening her grip on him. _You are such a blessing._

Harry was more than a bit confused, but he hugged her back. She seemed to tear up even more after that. Harry tugged on the hem of her green dress, which matched her hair in the firelight. “What’s wrong?” he asked once more, desperate to help. 

Melia simply shook her head and clung onto him tightly, not letting go. Instead of answering, she whispered sweet lullabies into his ears, and his eyelids grew heavy. After a while, Harry grew tired, so he simply yawned, allowing the warmth of the fire and the arms around him to lull him off to sleep, content to watch the stars twinkle in the night sky until the world faded to black.

* * *

**Read and Review! Let me know if you like the direction I'm taking this fic in. I did promise an AU, after all.**


	11. Misty Waters

**PART TWO: THE SANDS OF TIME**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: MISTY WATERS**

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** _ _Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership._

_A huge thank you to_ _**Wakefan** _ _for providing me with an early review to the chapter from a reader's perspective. Their feedback has been absolutely wonderful, and so has his assistance in general._

* * *

"Why are we at a port?" Harry asked, his neck craning forward, trying to absorb everything happening below him as he held onto the nearby railing. "We're not taking a _ship_ to Egypt, are we?"

Alicia nodded, and Harry shook his head, reaching into his robes and procuring his mokeskin pouch. He slipped his arm inside and fumbled around, before returning with a 32-inch roll of parchment. He sat down on the ground, legs crossed, and scooted away from the railing, putting some space between himself and the edge. He then unfurled the parchment, flattening it out against the stone floor.

After a minute of gazing at the world map in front of him, he sighed, looking up at his mother, who was staring proudly at him. He ignored that, in favour of pointing out towards the horizon. "This is the Wadden Sea, right?" Seeing his mother's nod, he refocused onto the map, setting his finger onto a point near Germany. "I don't see how this is practical at all, mum. We'd be taking one hell of a detour." He started sliding his finger across a designated path. "We'd have to pass through the Strait of Dover, then continue through the English Channel, cut down through the Bay of Biscay, and follow the coastline 'till we get to the Strait of Gibraltar." Harry paused, frowning. "After that, it's the Alboran Sea, then the Mediterranean. Only then do we get to Egypt; either Alexandria or Port Said."

Harry looked up at his mother again, who was smiling amusedly at him. "It's not _funny_ , mum. That'd take months! Why don't we just take several Portkeys?"

"While I'm glad that you're putting our lessons to good use, Harry," Alicia tittered softly, and Harry blushed, "this is what we arranged." She paused, looking out towards the sea. "To answer your question, Egypt hasn't allowed Portkey travel in years, so people have to make due. Besides, it's smoother this way. Less travel sickness.

Harry shot her an incredulous look. " _Less_ travel sickness?" Alicia ignored him.

Seeing his mother was done talking, Harry sighed and nodded, though he didn't really see how this trip would work out. They hadn't packed (or prepared) for what would undoubtedly be months at sea. Harry thumped his foot impatiently and glanced around.

The Fisherman's Plaza, also known as _Der Fischerplatz_ to the locals, was a small section of Harlesiel, Wittmund, which bore a similar resemblance to a marketplace. Stalls were littered at the edges of the space, and the tiled floor saw much movement as wizards and witches milled about, either spending the time purchasing something or making their way to their designated vessels. It was a popular tourist attraction, and one of the very few magical centres of commerce not associated with Bremen or Hamburg. It wasn't large by any means, but it was completely magical, hidden with a variety of charms and wards that constantly repelled the muggles surrounding the small wizarding port.

A little way down the elevated courtyard, and past the railing, Harry could spot a grand flight of stone steps, ones that cascaded down the hill before plunging into the sea, the edges of the stone stained a darker tone, tinted with the stormy grey of the Wadden Sea, and littered with the many rocks and assorted shells that had been collected from the steps with the high tide. Harry took a deep breath as he admired everything, the tint of salt burning his nostrils.

Around four to five large wooden docks spread out directly from the stone staircase beneath him, running parallel to the face of the sea. Large, thick, wooden beams supported their weight, with some beams ending visibly onto the submerged steps, while others reached farther below until they too, disappeared from sight.

The docks were, apparently, a newer addition - one that had been implemented after Grindelwald's War, sometime in the past century or so. The public square he was in had existed much earlier than that, according to his mother; along with the stone staircase, they were both some of the oldest wizarding structures on this side of Germany. From what he understood, though, they dated back to the times when the land was still called Germania by the Romans.

Harry had stood up by now, and was currently leaning on the edge of the railing, the map already returned to his pouch. The beams supporting him were narrow, and mostly served as decor, but Harry was light, so no groan of protest was heard. His mother kept a careful eye on him as he did. While her son was generally well-behaved, he was prone to inflicting flights of heart-wrenching terror into her weary motherly soul. It went unsaid that many had injured themselves here: before the railing had been added, wizards had come close to death from simply slipping off the elevated courtyard and falling down onto the stairs, where they would tumble down all the way into the welcoming lap of the Wadden Sea. Needless to say, Alicia did not want her son to suffer the same mishaps.

Thankfully, nothing untoward happened. The sun was beaming overhead; having yet to reach midday, and Harry sighed. His father was off trying to find a restroom to relieve himself, claiming that he didn't really want to brave whatever accommodations the ship would be having. Harry dearly wished his father would hurry up. He wanted to sit down and rest (away from the glaring sun), but his mother's pursed lips dissuaded him from simply walking off towards the many patches of shade created by the stalls. It was clear that she disapproved of something. Whether that was the waiting they were doing, or the location they were currently in, Harry didn't know. Maybe a little bit of both.

"How long will the trip last, Mum?" Harry asked, more out of pure boredom than any real curiosity. He stared out towards the docks, trying to ascertain which ship they would be taking. He was currently debating between a Bilander and a Galleon. Both seemed like good options (at a glance) for long periods at sea. He didn't really know anything about sea-travel, but they looked cool, at least.

"Three hours at most, I believe," Alicia muttered. Harry nodded for a moment before he swivelled his head to look at her, gawking.

"What do you mean, _three hours?_ " he hissed. " _How?"_

Alicia smirked at him, before uttering a word that made him want to groan and snort all at once.

"Magic," was all she said.

Harry huffed, and went back to looking down towards the many stone steps, watching fellow wizards huff and puff down and up the stairs. He smiled for a minute at one man's expression, before souring as he realised he would be doing the same in a couple of minutes. He sagged in place, already annoyed at the wait.

"Where's Dad, Mum?" Harry whined, already tired of standing around idly. He was very close to sauntering off towards the beckoning shade of the stalls, his mother's ire be damned. It seemed his mother knew that, too, because she grabbed his hand and gave it a tight squeeze before searching the crowds around them once more.

"I… I do not know." She pursed her lips. "He should be back here anytime—Aha!"

Harry immediately shot up and peered over towards the same location she was pointing. It was a slightly thick crowd surrounding a collection of food-bearing - mostly _Steckerlfisch_ , he noted - stalls, with a single narrow street jutting down the centre. It was down this narrow street that Harry caught sight of him.

William was walking briskly towards them, pacing himself according to the rest of the crowd so as to not knock anyone over. He caught sight of his wife and son and waved, an easy grin planting itself on his face as he made his way over.

As he was nearing, Harry nearly toppled into his mother dramatically. She held firm, and the little boy exclaimed "Finally!", his shoulders drooping and eyes darting towards the heavens as he clasped his hands together in 'prayer'; like he was searching for guidance, or possibly thanks.

William simply raised an eyebrow at his son's mopey dramatics before ignoring it in stride. He turned towards his wife, who appeared to be sympathetic to her son's plight, though she did not show it much, if at all.

"Are we all ready?" William grinned, looking between Harry and Alicia expectantly.

Harry watched his mother visibly restrain herself from lashing out at William in indignation. It was good that they were still in public view, Harry decided. Maybe tonight he would be able to fall asleep with his eardrums still reasonably intact.

"Yes, _dear_ ," Alicia forced out instead, her voice gaining that sickly sweet tone Harry knew was a sign of promised pain - and danger. Lots of danger. "We've been ready for the past twenty minutes."

William rubbed the back of his head, gaining a sheepy expression. "Good, good…" he muttered. Harry had to muffle his snort.

Alicia huffed. "Where _were_ you, William? You didn't get _lost,_ did you?" She eyed him suspiciously.

"No, no, of course, I didn't!" William dissuaded her with a quick wave of his hands. He paused for (most likely) dramatic effect. "It's just… I saw this lovely pendant in one of the stalls," William slowly reached into one of his robe pockets and grasped something, "and, well… it reminded me of your eyes. I thought it would look rather stunning on you." William grinned unrepentantly at Alicia's wide eyes.

William then pulled his wife closer to hip, slipping the pendant onto her neck and clasping it shut in one fluid movement. Harry glanced at the piece of jewellery. He was right, it did fit her. A soft, shining silver thread snaked around her neck loosely, rounding off at a small encased bright emerald-green stone as the centrepiece. The new jewellery joined Harry's own gift to his mother (from the Grimm's tomb), and the emerald pendant rested above the longer necklace just ever so slightly, barely touching one another.

William and Alicia's eyes locked as he adjusted the necklaces on her neck. He held both in his fingers for a moment, his eyes never leaving hers, before lowering the two pieces back down around her neck. William settled everything and gave his wife a cheeky grin, muttering 'beautiful' and planting a kiss on her cheek. Alicia blushed and her smile grew, all previous issues with her husband forgotten for the moment.

Harry did some quick mental math, and by his calculations, the only way to make them hurry up was to:

"Bleurgh! Yuck! Really, mum? Really, dad?" Harry continued making retching noises, glancing up every so often which only seemed to further fuel his capacity to attract attention. After a good ten seconds of faux-puking, he had two pairs of eyes on him. One, a vibrant green, the other a soft brown. Alicia and William both looked at each other again before they turned to Harry.

The nine-year-old, in response, simply huffed, tapping his dragonhide boot against the worn stone of the courtyard and giving the two lovebirds the fiercest scowl he could. When all he got was twin amused looks; one a smirk; the other a snort, he glared.

Fed up with dealing with his parents' lovey-dovey attitude and disgusting face-maiming, Harry shook his head with a sigh and turned around, carrying the Grimm Anthology under his left arm, grasping his trunk in his right hand, he started making his way down the stone steps, not taking a second look at his parents.

"Honestly…" Harry muttered. "Better things to do than wasting time," he grumbled. "Like getting on the bloody boat, for once."

Harry heard a faint "Language, Harry!" and blushed, turning around to find his mother smirking at him, one eyebrow raised challengingly. The boy stuck his tongue out at her and turned around, returning to his journey down the stone steps. A small grin spread across his face. It was both exhilarating and terrifying how much time had passed since his family had left Tutshill behind. From October to April.

"Six bloody months," he whispered, with a shake of his head and a smile on his lips.

* * *

The _almost_ nine-year-old wizard ("Only six more months!") knew it was a boat, but he didn't trust its structural integrity. It didn't look sturdy at all. In fact, it looked like it might sink as soon as he set foot in it. He softly voiced his concern to the two adults behind him.

"Are you sure that's safe, Dad?"

William nodded; he too was staring at the boat. Alicia was the only one who didn't seem unfazed, though that might've been because she was the one to organize the transportation. Either way, Harry knew his mother was acting. She too was off-put by the boat they were going to take.

"I know that we're going to Egypt, but isn't this a bit overboard?" Harry smiled at his own joke. It was rather funny, all things considered. Too bad no one laughed.

It was a boat, yes, but not a regular boat, mind you. It looked strikingly different from the other ships harboured nearby, and that was considering that this was a _magical_ port.

It was an Egyptian reed boat: A skiff with two torches burning in the front, and a big rudder in the back. A small hut with an entrance flap was positioned in the centre of the vessel, and a figure in a black trench coat and hat—and not much else, Harry noticed—stood at the tiller.

The ship was basically woven together from coils of plant fibre—like a giant floating rug. Harry reasoned that the torches at the front couldn't be a good idea on a ship this flimsy, because if they didn't skink, they'd burn. This train of thought was only abated by the knowledge that the flames were probably (hopefully) magical, and wouldn't pose much threat to the integrity of the vessel. At the back, the tiller was manned by a stout form wearing a dusty black trench coat and hat. The hat was shoved down on his head firmly, casting a shadow in the broad German daylight. Harry couldn't see his face, and the figure's hands and feet were lost in the folds of the coat.

"How does that thing move?" Harry asked his mother, curiously tugging on her robes. He pointed at the ship expectantly. "There's no sail."

Harry knew that it _could_ move - it was magical, after all - but he was very much intrigued as to the nature of the magic on the boat. Would it simply increase in speed when travelling?

"Trust me, it works," his father said, having misinterpreted the reason behind his son's question. William took a brave step forward onto the Egyptian ship. Harry wanted to explain himself (he was not _worried_ ) but decided to cull his questions for later. Nodding, he followed his father onto the boat.

The day was hot, but when Harry stepped onboard he suddenly felt cooled, as if the ship itself abated any unpleasant sensations from his person. He shifted around and watched his mother join them on the ship. As soon as she placed both feet onto the boat, it lurched, moving away from the stone steps of the Fisherman's Plaza.

Harry waited in place a bit, slightly uncertain, as the ship drifted off. Then, his father cleared his throat, and with a clasp of his hands, guided everyone towards the centre of the boat, pointing towards the medium-sized hut made from woven mats.

Inside, Harry settled down on the floor, which was covered in soft rugs. He set his book and trunk to the side, and sat idly for a minute, before deferring to his mother, who was seated beside him and already rummaging through her things.

"Mum, what do I do?"

Alicia looked up at him, and blinked, before exchanging a glance with his father, who was seated to the side. She sighed. "It's going to take at least two hours, maybe more, to get to Egypt, Harry. Maybe you should catch up on your studies until then." She considered him for a moment, nodding at the Grimm Anthology. "Just remember to stop if you're feeling sick, alright?"

Harry nodded once, before reaching over to his side and grabbing the first volume (and the only one in his possession) of the Grimm Anthology. Harry then readjusted himself on the carpet with the book in hand, settling down to read. He idly noted his father standing up and walking out of the hut as he did.

* * *

> _IV_
> 
> _Others_
> 
> " _Out of the two of us, Jacob has always leaned towards the more abstract, otherworldly, or the metaphysical things in his research, and try as I might dissuade him from these often fruitless endeavours, he continues to search for signs of things beyond human perception."_
> 
> " _While we are both qualified magizoologists, Jacob tends to deviate into the fields surrounding the supernatural and the mysteries of magic. Instead of focusing on what we defined as 'beasts' and 'beings', Jacob chose instead to direct his attention towards the waning topic of ghosts, spirits, and occasionally, the powers-that-may-be, those we lumped together as_ Others _, for they had many varying traits that didn't seem to fit in anywhere else. The only thing that seemed to connect these under one umbrella term was the recurring reassurance that they were all beyond the perception of the common wizard, and certainly beyond that of most mortals."_
> 
> " _With this in mind, while the topics he delved into were never as prominent as my own two preferred fields, Jacob always seemed to have a large mountain of information to shift through during research."_

* * *

Harry's eyes widened as he read over the introduction to the fourth and final section of the book: 'Others'. Unlike the first and second sections (and the third, to an extent), this one carried a semblance of informality. The introduction itself could attest to that.

If what he read was true, then the Brothers Grimm (or at least, Jacob) believed there to be the existence, or at least the plausibility of, higher beings, if only for the sake of possibility. Harry had not initially bothered to read through the introductory pages of sections III and IV, but he was glad he now had the time to do so, without the anxiety of a possessed uncle and a bewitched father looming on his shoulder. He read sedately, though his mind whizzed with possible questions and lines of thought to explore. It was a shame he wouldn't have access to Melia anytime soon. Perhaps his parents would decide to return to Randolph's for Yule, or something. He hoped they would.

Harry returned his attention to the pages silently, but he was internally comparing Jacob Grimm's writings against Melia's teachings. While it initially seemed like both versions disagreed on many things, both seemed to reluctantly imply that there were many ways in which the world (and magic, thusly) worked and that none appeared to have absolute control over nature.

Nevertheless, Harry appreciated the academic insight into the topic provided by Jacob, just as much as he did the hours he spent under the stars surrounding a fireplace, listening and recording the tales and stories provided by Melia. It saddened him that he would be missing those in the months to come. Harry flipped a page quickly, idly fingering the leather cover of the book as he plunged himself into thought. By the end of the month he shared with the ash-tree nymph, he had gained a complex mixture of admiration, fear, and disgust with the figures and deities in Melia's tales. While he was loath to fully believe in their existence, he didn't disregard anything his starlit tutor would pass on. His belief was helped along by the sheer _presence_ he had felt during the Greek rituals, along with Melia's constant companionship.

All this amounted to him reluctantly delving into the stories and customs of the Ancient Greeks. While he wasn't devout by any means, he did enjoy listening to the fantastic stories of heroes, gods, and monsters. At first, he had simply sat on Melia's lap as she recounted the Twelve Labours of Hercules or the tragedy of Helen and Paris. After a while, he had begun to realise the importance behind the pseudo-lessons. Melia was _preparing_ him, for some reason.

The nymph seemed to genuinely believe he would need the information. Harry gave a chuckle, drawing the attention of his mother, but he ignored her look.

Once he had come to the conclusion that his lessons on Greek Mythology might _actually_ matter, he had brought a quill and parchment to all of the nighttime rendezvous. He still remembered her bright smile the first time he had done so. Harry smiled dreamily at the memory. They had been meeting for a few nights already, so he was well-accustomed to walking around the forest at night.

* * *

_A week before the departure to Egypt;_

Harry stumbled into the small clearing that held his tutor's camp. He spotted the ash-tree nymph over by the side of the fire, poking the coals with a small stick. He coughed lightly, drawing her attention. She looked up, and her eyes glittered in the moonlight. Harry felt his face heat up at her look. She was very pretty, he decided.

When he realised he had been staring, he quickly averted his eyes, drawing a small laugh from the nymph. He shifted in place, still not comfortable enough to sit down without permission. Thankfully, Melia noticed this, because she stood up to greet him.

_Hello, little one_ , was all she said, drawing closer to him. Harry felt the magic reach out to his mind and reverberate around his skull, but he shrugged it off, giving the nymph a shy smile instead.

"Hello, Miss Melia," he whispered, still somewhat entranced by her beauty.

The nymph laughed and leaned in, trapping the small wizard in a gentle hug. She laughed musically when he went bright red at the contact. Harry squirmed. His arms were still closed around his writing materials, so he couldn't very well return the sign of affection, making everything a bit awkward for him. The hug lasted a few seconds before she pulled away, though her hands instead rested on his shoulders as she looked mirthfully at him.

_Oh_ , Melia said. _What have you got there, little one?_ The nymph pointed towards his arms. Harry mumbled something, and she leaned further back, trying to peek at whatever he was carrying. When he didn't make any sign of clarifying, she nodded, before grabbing his hand and tugging him towards her seat. She sat down gently, before patting her lap with a smile. _Sit_ , she prompted.

Harry shook his head, and she frowned. _Why not, little one?_

Harry actually looked determined, and the nymph smiled at his expression. Harry let out a sigh, before he unfurled his arms, displaying the writing materials.

"I'm going to learn," the small wizard said, his eyebrows furrowed. "I don't know why you think I need these lessons, but I will make use of them. I'll work hard. I can promise you that much, Miss Melia."

The beaming smile - and subsequent peck on the cheek - she gave him made the entire trip to the camp (and everything else) worth it. He blushed tomato red and she laughed, a glittering musical note in the night air.

* * *

Harry closed the Grimm Anthology with a snap and set it aside. He wasn't getting anything productive done with his thoughts scattered. He scowled and closed his eyes, leaning back until his head rested on a nearby cushion. He could hardly focus on the words in front of him. Harry's mind wandered back towards the time he spent with the ash-tree nymph.

Though initially, Harry had been loath to spend too much time with Melia alone because of the absurd amount of effort required to keep his mind _intact_ , he had quickly realised that constant exposure to her magic was ensuring that he slowly but surely built a natural resistance to the effect her magic had on his mind.

Beyond retelling the myths, Melia had taken a few minutes out of their nightly-meetings to make him learn Greek customs and propriety. He had initially thought that it wouldn't be too hard to adapt to, considering he had been suffering through British Wizarding 'etiquette' lessons under his mother for the past few years.

Harry sighed at the memory wistfully. He had been so, utterly, terribly _wrong_. Greek traditions and customs were completely different from the modern British wizard's. The lessons he had gone through weren't even _modern_ , at that. They wouldn't hold up in any modern part of Greece, but then again, they were to be applied if he ever encountered another being from the Grecian Mythos. That way, if he ever did, he would know how to behave in their presence.

Sadly, he hadn't had enough time to fully learn Ancient Greek (or any kind of Greek, for that matter), but he reasoned he could get by well enough. He would have to return to it eventually, though.

The days had passed quickly with his newfound interest and partial tutor, and he had found himself enjoying his stay at Spudmore Cottage much more than before. He almost managed to forget completely about his scar, until his father awoke from his near-coma-like state and frantically began trying to make up for the lost time. Then, Harry was swiftly reminded of his situation, and he threw himself almost viciously into studying. He had first brushed up on section III, considering it was next-in-line in the progression of the book. The first chapter had covered ghosts, and by extension, souls.

> " _A Ghost can be considered, not as_ the _soul of a witch or wizard, but instead a simple imprint, a memory of the being that has been created by magic. It is akin to the 'peel' of the apple. Not necessary for the fruit to be enjoyed, for the soul to move on, but it leaves the soul not-quite complete. Usually, the soul of a wizard or witch who maintains a fear of death or a strong connection to someplace becomes a ghost, as their magic doesn't truly accept that they have moved on."_

Harry noted that while Jacob seemed to believe that the 'essence' of a person lived in their soul and that it _could_ be damaged or manipulated, Melia had other ideas regarding the concept.

Whenever he would ask the ash-tree nymph for her opinion on the matter, she would always give him the same response: ' _The soul is, on one hand, something that a human being risks in battle and loses in death. However, it is also what departs at the time of death from the person's limbs and travels to the underworld, where it has a more or less pitiful afterlife as a shade or image of the deceased person.'_

Even though she had been plenty clear on the subject, Melia fully admitted that she had limited experiences with souls and that those she knew of did not involve 'mortal' magic. Either way, she seemed horrified at the idea of tampering with your own soul. Retrieving a soul from _Hades_ was fine, even though it rarely happened. You simply needed approval. However, if you tried to twist and manipulate it? According to her, that was unnatural, _anathema_.

Harry agreed full-heartedly, even though the prompt of his scar's existence nagged at him constantly during those conversations.

Harry smiled at the pages in front of him, noting Jacob's distinct scrawl. In contrast to Jacob's work with sections II and IV, Wilhem had always been centred around the more popular or 'real' creatures and beasts; he'd focused most of his attention on the more central part of magizoology (I and II), and the shift in perspective and writing from the two halves of the book was _very_ noticeable.

Wilhelm generally worked with concrete and proven examples as a building block, taking a very methodical and distinct approach to his chapters, while Jacob moved through mythology, lore, and hearsay with ease when researching his own sections of magizoology.

Harry gave a good-natured smile as he flipped the page, and wondered if the Brothers Grimm were currently watching him, from wherever their souls lay in rest. It was a plausible idea, and Harry wondered if they would have approved of him reading their work. He dearly hoped so.

* * *

Harry heard his father walk back in, though he didn't look up, as he was too enthralled by the book to consider it. He heard muttered whispers being exchanged but ignored those too. It was only when his mother addressed him that he did look up.

"Yes, Mum?"

Alicia gave him a stern look. "You are not to leave the hut for the next few minutes, understand?"

He hadn't been planning to in the first place, but now his curiosity had peaked. "Why?" he asked, leaning forward, presenting the image of the innocent child he was. William sighed, and Harry swore he saw his mother's eyes twitch. Noticing that, he shook his head. "Nevermind, mum. I'll stay put."

Both his parents seemed relieved, so Harry returned to his book. He watched his father peek his head out the cover of the flap once more for a second, before he came back in.

It was only then, in the brief moment between focusing on his father's entering form and focusing on his book did Harry notice the feeling.

The feeling was hard to describe, though it was rather familiar. Harry thought it was rather similar to the effect of a Portkey, with the strange tug at the base of his sternum and the queasy tingle in his stomach as he was picked up from one place and dropped in another. But it wasn't that, if only for the fact that he wasn't falling and landing on solid ground, and that the feeling didn't go away.

He could feel the boat moving at an astounding speed. The light peering in through the flap of the hut dimmed, instantly becoming a deep, dark hue. The flames inside the hut flickered madly, nearly sputtering out, and everything _blurred_. Harry felt a thick fog settle onto his mind, and strange sounds echoed in the silence of the trip; slithering and hissing, distant screams, voices whispering in raspy, inhuman tongues.

The tingling in his stomach spread, quickly turning into nausea. The sounds, the beckons turned louder, clawing at him, reaching. He heard screams, only to shut his mouth when he realised they were his own. Suddenly, the boat slowed, and Harry lurched forward, crumpling to the ground in a messy heap. He groaned once, blinking blearily at the soles of some shoes before he closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, his brain harshly debating between passing out and staying awake.

Thankfully, he was picked up gently and propped up. He stood with uncertainty, supported by delicate hands. His mother? Harry didn't know. His eyes weren't cooperating right now.

"Mum?" he whispered, as a shimmering mess of blonde hair came into view. "Why are there two of you?" he slurred, his knees buckling weakly. Harry collapsed forward, only to fall into outstretched arms. He was then picked up and propped against a warm chest. He snuggled into it constantly before blinking. He caught two concerned green eyes looking back at him and he smiled, knowing that his mother was there. He was shifted again, and he rested his head on her shoulder, as she ran a hand through his hair. He felt queasy at the jarring movement, but crushed the feeling rising in his stomach ruthlessly. He would _not_ be throwing up all over his mother, that much was certain.

" _Sleep_ , little one," she murmured, running her hand through his hair and kissing his head. Harry nodded, closing his eyes with a content sigh.

He slept like a bloody log, all things considered.

* * *

Harry silently watched the scene in front of him unfold with a shit-eating grin. His father was attempting to bargain with the muggle salesman over some old book, but neither understood each other properly, so nothing came of the deal.

"Don't worry dad, you'll get him next time," he teased, knowing that William had argued with this same vendor not three days ago.

Harry laughed vindictively, feeling no inclination to help his father with the translation process. Not after he had been forced to use sunscreen. Harry hated sunscreen.

William, in his loose cotton shirt and pants, scowled at his son, but otherwise decided to ignore the slightly bitter provocation.

Alicia, on the other hand, stood a few feet away, dressed in a long, brown skirt and a plain, loose white shirt, with a patterned shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a scarf covering her neck. She had been adamant on adapting to the nature of Cairo, and considering they couldn't very well wear wizarding robes in the streets of muggle Egypt, they had adapted their muggle wear into lighter clothing.

Harry was currently dressed in a dark linen shirt and pants, similarly to his father. The only difference was the brown muggle coat he had chosen to wear. It made him stick out like a sore thumb, but it wasn't offensive, so his mother allowed it after placing a couple of cooling charms on it for the day.

Harry made his way over to his mother, who was currently decidedly interested in some trinkets that lay on a velvet carpet for display. An elderly woman dressed in traditional clothes sat behind the carpet, her sharp eyes peering up at Alicia with interest as the witch surveyed the mountains of wares cluttered around her, placed on boxes and tables.

Harry caught a sharp pang of something bitter as he arrived at his mother's side, and turned around in interest, but nothing caught his eye. He looked up the street. It was probably a spice cart or something, he reasoned. After a minute of idle standing, Alicia spoke.

"This one," his mother decided, picking up a small necklace that continued a red polished stone as the centrepiece. It was made with some kind of dark black twine, and very simple in comparison to some of the other necklaces on display. Harry idly nodded in approval even as he scrunched his nose and grimaced at the stench of urine that had just attacked him.

"Harry dear, come here," Alicia called, not realising that he was standing right behind her. She turned around and jumped slightly in shock when she saw him standing beside her, before smiling at him. "Would you mind asking how much this one is? I do love the patterns on the stone."

Harry's eyes drifted towards the wicker baskets on the stall to the left before turning back to his mother with an exasperated look. He rolled his eyes at her spending urges before turning back to the vendor and smiling easily.

" _Min faḍlak,"_ Harry said, in greeting. _Excuse me_. He then removed his hand from his pocket and pointed towards the necklace in his mother's hand.

" _Bikam hādhā?"_ he asked, in heavily accented Arabic. _How much is this?_ Harry crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping that he hadn't butchered the language.

The elderly woman peered at the necklace and coughed slightly, before relaying the price in a croaky voice.

Harry nodded at her, hoping that he had understood correctly.

"She says it's one-hundred Egyptian pounds, Mum."

Alicia raised her eyebrows. "Oh, alright then." She then reached into her purse and counted the bills. Harry caught her muttering, "Not even a Galleon!" and he smiled at her. True, the conversion rate to muggle currencies were almost laughable, but Galleons _were_ pure gold, so it made sense.

Alicia handed the money to the old lady before saying "Thank you". Harry smiled, and dutifully repeated it in Arabic like the good translator he was. _Shukran._

As the one more prone to learning languages, he continued with his English and German studies as per norm; he had moved past grammar and technical work, instead of continuing with his studies through literature and practised speech (when possible). He had recently been tasked with learning Arabic, but he was progressing quickly enough with the help of the Language Charm that it didn't cut too much into his free time.

Of course, he could've simply dropped his self-study sessions: Ancient Greek, both the language and the study through culture, literature and mythology, but the thought never crossed his mind. He had made a promise to Melia, and he intended on following through with it. Plus, he enjoyed the reading enough that it didn't feel too much like a 'study' session.

Even if his mother gave him weird looks when she applied the Language Charm, only to find him reading Greek books. He avoided the questions because he didn't know how well the magic placed on his parents would hold under scrutiny.

In addition to his social studies; magical and muggle, along with his theory sessions and Potions' periods, he was slowly becoming a polyglot. Harry snorted at the thought. It was a shame that there were not any reliable magical means for translation. Why no one had thought of creating one was beyond Harry.

'Maybe it's because languages change so often?' he wondered, following his mother down the cobbled streets of the Egyptian flea market. Anyhow, it seemed to amuse the locals immensely when the child addressed them in their native tongue, and the adults did not. Harry swore quietly as a passerby jostled him around and he stumbled slightly.

Regardless, Harry no longer felt _too_ bitter about the subject. He'd come to enjoy learning language. Something about it being a doorway to another vision of life.

Harry picked himself up and trotted over to his mother, and then they quickly caught up with William. Harry admired the exquisite textiles and shimmering drapes surrounding him, even as the soft scent of baked bread gnawed at his hunger. He held off from asking for some because they'd soon be stopping for an afternoon meal, and he didn't want to spoil his appetite.

The three Portwoods continued down the winding passageway, stopping occasionally to look at shiny jewellery (Alicia); admire interesting antiques; (William) or stare at mouth-watering street food (Harry). It was past noon, and the glaringly bright sun was glaring at them, seemingly taking pride in heating the stone under their feet to absurdly hot levels. The sensation made him think of Apollo in the Greek myths, which led his thoughts to Egypt:

Melia was convinced of the existence of the Greek Pantheon; if _they_ were real, surely the Egyptian deities were too? Harry decided it warranted investigation. If anything, a brief study. He didn't want to be caught unawares.

'Not like last time,' he thought, grimly. 'Even if it worked out in the end.'

Harry stumbled again, jarring his focus back to the real world. He caught himself again and turned around to glare at the retreating back of a middle-aged man covered in expensive garbs. Not wanting to risk publicly cussing out some important figure in Cairo's society, he restrained himself, choosing instead to whisper assorted curses in Ancient Greek.

Melia had initially disapproved of his interest, but she never turned him away from learning; thus, his favourites included " _Erre es korakas!_ " and " _Oinopìpes!"_ , both of which he used in this instance. Not that anyone heard him, of course. Either way, it wouldn't matter.

Harry reached his parents again, having to duck and weave through the crowd of people milling about. He grabbed his mother's hand tightly, not particularly caring if he looked the part of a small child; he was tired of getting knocked around and falling behind. Alicia looked down at him as he did, and he grinned up at her. She tittered softly but made no complaint.

They had been in Egypt for almost a week now, Harry realised, and they still hadn't been able to visit the ancient tombs yet. Tomorrow marked the seventh day of the month of May, which usually meant something magically, even though the meaning escaped him currently. He hadn't had time to focus on _that_ branch of Divination yet.

Harry tucked behind his mother for a moment - to avoid crashing into a rich-looking couple holding hands - before popping back to her side. He really wanted to visit the tombs: besides the magical side of Egypt, it was one of the only reasons he had looked forward to coming here. Everything else in the muggle half was somewhat ruined by the blistering heat (or the searing cold), but not the tombs. They were deep underground and thus protected from the hot sun.

The only reason they hadn't gone to one yet was that there existed a scheduling system. No respectable wizard wanted to visit the ones that were open to _everyone_ (muggles), so they had to wait for an open touring slot for one of the magical ones that had been opened for visitation: either by Gringotts or the Egyptian Ministry.

Private digs _did_ exist, but they were rarely open to the general wizarding public, instead only hosting tours for the wealthy or well-connected. William had explained _that_ when Harry had asked, and unfortunately, the Portwoods weren't enough of either to gain an invitation to one of the private tours. Thus, they had to schedule a visit to one of the others. Thankfully, Gringotts Bank had recently wrapped up one dig, and were hosting tours for the next few months before they handed it over to the Egyptian Ministry. William had eagerly signed up for a slot later in the month, so Harry was content to wait till then.

At least, in regards to tomb-exploring.

Harry tugged on his mother's pants, trying to grab her attention. "Mum, when are we going to visit the _other_ market?" he asked, looking up at her with large imploring eyes.

Alicia looked down at him, rolling her own. "Soon, Harry. Be _patient_. We are enjoying Muggle Egypt first, and we will have time to visit all the magical attractions later. We're staying for at least six months, remember? So be patient."

She finished her short speech with a stern look that basically screamed _,_ 'stop whinging or _else_!'

Harry grumbled to himself but didn't say anything else. He didn't want to suffer the consequences of an irritated mother. Terrible thing, that.

The Portwoods then took a right, turning into a secluded section of the market that seemed to specialise in live animals. The very few market-goers that seemed to be making their way through here, along with the harsh-looking vendors, cemented the idea that this setup wasn't entirely legal.

Surprisingly, Harry didn't voice his concern, even though he did take notice. He was much too focused on not gagging from the stench that came from the cages and boxes. The reek of faecal matter, urine and general filth - possibly a corpse somewhere too - pounded against his nostrils, making him cough violently and plug his nose.

His mother noticed the smell too and quickly cast a look around. When she was sure no-one was watching, she cast three quick Bubble-Head Charms, which in reality functioned more like face-masks. Harry cast her an alarmed look at the movement, but she simply shook her head at a smile and pointed at her own face. Harry raised his eyebrows but continued looking, perplexed.

" _What_?" he muttered when he didn't notice anything.

Alicia pulled him in closer before whispering in his ear. "They're only visible underwater, Harry. Regular air plus clean air doesn't do much for the eyes, does it?" She smirked at him.

Harry nodded, his mouth forming a small 'o' shape before he stuck out his tongue and pulled away to look around.

Now that the stench no longer made him want to kneel over and empty his stomach, he managed to inspect the animals without a problem. Physical, that is. Morally, he was on the edge about the scene around him.

He was about to ask his mother about the topic when instead, a small snake at the far end of the alley caught his eye, and he tugged both his parents over to look at it.

Its surface was midnight black, and Harry guessed that it must've _just_ shed its skin, due to the shining state of its scales. He stared at the snake intently, mesmerised by the animal's smooth movements and regal poise.

After a moment of shifting around, the snake finally noticed him, locking eyes with the young wizard. They continued to stare at each other; one in awe, the other in (unknown to the other party) growing irritation. This was partially why the following came to a great shock to Harry:

" _What do you want, silly creature?"_

_That_ , and the fact that snakes could, _apparently_ , speak.

Harry recoiled quickly. The snake had just spoken. He turned around towards his father and stared at him, alarmed. _The snake had just spoken._

William noticed his son's stunned expression and sent back a quizzical look. "Yes, Harry?"

"The snake just spoke. How are you not freaking out?" Harry asked. "Snakes don't speak," he added, though it seemed more like an effort to convince himself rather than a fact.

"And what did the snake say?" his father ventured, as though the situation were entirely commonplace.

"I...I don't remember," Harry frowned. Something about creatures?

"Then ask it," William said, seemingly completely serious.

Harry looked at his father as though he'd gone mad. William gave Harry an expectant look. Harry shook his head; maybe he _had_.

Harry then turned towards the reptile in the cage slowly.

" _Could you repeat that?"_ he asked, unsurely.

William's eyes widened, and he took a couple of steps back towards Alicia, pulling her away from the cages she had been inspecting and bringing her over towards their son.

The snake slithered closer to the edge of its cage." _I asked you what you wanted, you little—"_ the snake faltered, then it shook itself, as though it was trying to rid itself of something that had landed on its head.

Harry stood in shock at the snake, who regally straightened itself and gave what seemed to be the serpentine version of a bow.

" _It is an honour to meet you, Speaker._ "

Harry blinked.

"The _fuck_?"

* * *

**Read and Review!**

**A/N:** _*Sigh*, I am still in need of a Beta Reader, apparently. This sucks._

_Also, feel free to check out my other posted fic. It's not my priority right now, just something more casual._

_Cheers,_

_AvydReedr_


	12. The Path of Exile

**PART TWO: THE SANDS OF TIME**

**CHAPTER TWELVE: THE PATH OF EXILE**

* * *

**_Disclaimer:_ ** _ If you recognize it, then it probably isn’t mine. Any characters and situations, whether they be from Harry Potter or another literary universe, are the property of their respective authors. I do not claim ownership. _

_ A huge thank you to  _ **_Wakefan_ ** _ for providing me with an early review of the chapter from a reader’s perspective. His feedback has been wonderful, and so has his assistance in general. _

_ Also, big props to  _ **_Shadowz101_ ** _ for the good tips and advice, along with his excellent guidance. He’s been a great listener, too. Cheers to him.  _

* * *

**_A/N:_ ** _ Also, regarding the translation/transliteration of languages in this fic. No one asked, but I felt like it needed to be explained. While I do speak English, Spanish and Portuguese fluently, I do not speak German or Arabic or French or Greek. Thus, the internet is and will continue to be my guide for the foreseeable future. If the need arises, I will always try to clarify what specific kind of dialect Harry will be using with a language just to not confuse readers.  _

_ For ‘ _ The Forest of Dreams,’  _ the little bits of German I did use were all ‘Standard German’.  _

_ With Arabic, though, I’m using ‘MSA’ (Modern Standard Arabic). This probably isn’t too accurate to the worldbuilding (As Egyptian Arabic exists) but it is acceptable for literature, so that’s what’s going to happen. _

_ Either way, I am not fluent in Arabic (not in the least), so if you catch a mistake/error (for any of the translated languages, really) then please point it out in a review.  _

_ Cheers,  _

_ AvydReedr _

**_PS:_ ** _ Also,  _ **_216_ ** _ favourites;  _ **_311_ ** _ followers;  _ **_15.5k_ ** _ views! You guys are insane! Thank you so much! I’m sorry for uploading so late! Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

“Alright, we’re here!” Alicia exclaimed, a little too cheerfully for Harry’s taste. They had spent the entire day ogling the wares in the muggle market, and he was tired. He wanted peace, quiet, and a nice warm bed. They could’ve just spent one more night in the hotel (Harry and William’s idea) and move in with their new host come the morning, but Alicia had insisted they arrive that very same day. So they had. Harry groaned at his mother’s excitement. 

Alicia then promptly grabbed her handbag and trunk, before scuttling off the sidewalk and up the marble staircase towards the door, leaving William behind to pay the cab. They had to use muggle means to reach the apartment building, because neither Alicia nor William were comfortable enough with the layout of Cairo to apparate around looking for the address. Not to mention the attention they’d attract. So they had to resort to hailing a cab and being driven to the address. 

Alicia reached the doors, two stylish things composed of large, rectangular panes of glass, surrounded by a thick frame of African Blackwood. They sported long gilded handles, which she pushed inwards upon, before sliding inside. 

Harry rolled his eyes at her eagerness and picked up his trunk, following his mother inside the ten-story apartment building which was located somewhere down in central Cairo. 

William sighed, before taking up the rear of the procession. Yesterday had been their last night in a hotel, and for the remaining weeks, the Portwoods would be seeking accommodation together with an old friend of Alicia’s from Hogwarts. Harry glanced around at the luxurious entrance hall of the building, before shrugging and plopping himself down on one of the waiting chairs. 

The room itself wasn’t too glaringly exuberant, but Harry had a good-enough eye to notice the little details that made the place feel more prestigious. Such as the collection of fresh flowers arranged throughout the room, which he reasoned were replaced daily. Or in particular, a  _ very  _ old Greek vase sitting proudly atop a glass table; one displaying a red-figure scene of three women playing music. Harry smiled at the depiction. 

William, on the other hand, remained nearby idly looking around the entrance and appreciating the art hung up around on the sleek walls. 

A soft laugh caught Harry’s attention, and he pulled his eyes away from the Greek vase to silently watch his mother approach the reception desk, where she chatted with the man behind it for a few seconds before nodding and making her way back over to them. 

Harry tilted his head to look up at her and she sat down beside him with a huff. “He says he’s notified Samira, so we’ve got to wait for her to come down and clear us.” Alicia then rummaged through her purse, picking out a slim novel, which Harry recognized. He stared at his mother with a teasing grin. 

“ _ Really _ , mum?” he said, catching her attention. He raised an eyebrow at her choice of reading. “You’re reading  _ The Scarlet Wi—” _

“Don’t bother your mother, Harry” William interjected with a sigh. “Didn’t you read it yourself?”

Harry pouted. “So? She’s an adult, she should have better taste.  _ I  _ read it because I was bored,” he said, making an excuse up on the spot. 

William quirked an eyebrow at his son, a smile threatening his lips. “Oh, is that so? And what about that time when I caught you reading  _ A Summertime L—” _

“ _ Quiet,  _ old man,” Harry interrupted, scowling. He raised his finger threateningly at his father. “You don’t want to wake up to frogs in your covers, do you?” Alicia laughed openly, while William simply smirked. Harry quickly gave up the intimidation act, smiling instead. His parents could act so much like children sometimes. 

A few minutes passed in silence, before the elevator at the end of the entrance hall  _ pinged  _ open, the steel doors sliding ajar. Harry looked up to see a young woman exit the elevator. 

Harry observed her for a second, before turning away, thinking that she was just someone going for a night out, even if her outfit seemed rather informal. She was wearing a long, ankle-length maroon dress with short sleeves and a simple flowery pattern. Her neck was mostly covered with a thin golden scarf, but Harry caught sight of a small shining pendant, too. She wore thin-strapped gilded sandals that somehow matched the expensive-looking silver headpiece she wore, too. A few bracelets tinkled against her caramel skin as she walked, and her flowing black hair was let down, which was strange. He’d rarely seen women do that in Egypt. Even his mother had begun covering up more. Shrugging to himself, he went back to gazing at the Greek vase.

A few seconds passed and Harry heard her footfalls close in, instead of veering off towards the receptionist or towards the front door. His mother was too engrossed in her sappy romance novel (he’d know) to look up, and his father was off down the hall, his back turned, staring at a peculiar moonlit landscape. 

The soft  _ clack _ of her sandals came to a stop nearby, and her feet entered Harry’s line of sight, prompting him to look up and stare for a few seconds. 

The young woman’s long hair swayed slightly as she stood there, amusedly looking down at him, then his mother, who still hadn’t realized someone was waiting for her. After a moment of silence, Harry met the woman’s dark eyes before sighing and calling his mother softly. “Mum?”

Alicia ignored him, instead choosing to cross her legs and bop her right foot constantly. Harry heard the woman sigh fondly in response, which made him wonder if this lady was the ‘old friend’ of his mother’s they were going to be staying with. Harry raised his hand before snapping his fingers sharply, but he elicited no response from his mother. 

For a moment, he forgot where he was, and muttered, “Must’ve put up a silencing charm or something.  _ Ugh _ . I swear…”

He clammed up a moment later and glanced at the woman, alarmed, before relaxing when she said, “Yeah, probably. She hasn’t changed much in that regard, I see.”

Harry nodded, grinning at the woman, to which she gave a small smile back. Harry then shook his mother’s shoulder slightly, which caused her to look up at him. He coughed, before pointing to the woman standing a little way in front of them. He saw his mother gasp before smiling, though he couldn’t hear anything from her end. 

‘The charm must’ve been going both ways,’ he realised, though he wondered why his mother had chosen to do so. ‘Maybe she was muttering,’ he decided, looking back at his mother, who had discreetly pulled out her wand and dispelled the silencing charm on herself. 

“Samira!” Alicia exclaimed, standing up and giving the woman a tight hug. “It’s been far too long,” she continued, her eyes shining with happiness. Harry smiled at the display, his earlier annoyance with his mother’s cheerful attitude wiped away immediately. He could manage the excitement. It wasn’t  _ that  _ late, anyway…

The newly-designated Samira laughed, before returning the hug just as tightly. “I know, Alicia dear. I’ve missed you - and the others - terribly. It gets so lonely here sometimes, and work just isn’t enough to keep me distracted, you know? It’s the only reason I invited you all.”

The sentence might’ve appeared to be rude or dismissive, but Harry caught the joking manner and subtone of genuine gratefulness coming from her. His mother did too, obviously, as she proceeded to fuss over her old schoolmate. “Oh, you poor dear. Don’t worry, we’ll sort you out.” 

“Now,” Alicia prompted, smiling at her friend. She moved aside a bit so Harry came into Samira’s view again before wrapping an arm around my shoulder and bringing me to her side. “Samira, this is my son, Harry,” she introduced, a little bit of pride in her voice. Harry smiled, hearing it vividly. 

His mother then turned back to him, before gesturing to Samira. “Harry, this is Samira Nazari, one of my old friends from Slytherin.”

Harry didn’t move from his spot, standing at a respectful distance, but he did raise his hand and held the palm flat against his chest, before bowing a little and saying, “ _ Motasharefon bema'refatek. _ ” _Pleased to meet you_.

Samira returned the greeting, albeit modified, with ease, before sharing a look with Alicia that seemed to convey a dozen words at once. When his mother nodded, Samira smiled, before gracefully offering Harry her hand. 

Harry then knew that the ‘local greeting’ was over, and this was simply a test to see if he remembered his ‘wizarding etiquette’ lessons. Maybe his mother half-expected him to forget them over the months.

He hadn’t forgotten, though. 

Harry stepped forward a small bit and took her hand before bowing and pressing his lips to it lightly.  _ “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Nazari _ ,” he added, on a whim. Even though it wasn’t English, it was still formal enough to be allowed, and he was on foreign soil, so it didn’t matter if he used English or any other language. He retreated, cautiously eyeing his mother, wanting to see if he performed the greeting correctly... 

“ _ Pareillement, Monsieur Harry,  _ ” Samira replied with a little courtesy; not missing a beat. 

Harry fell back beside his mother with a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, though his face tinged pink when Samira began giggling uncontrollably, her hand pressed to her heart. 

Samira smiled at him, cooing. “Isn’t he such a little charmer,” she said, before turning to Alicia. “I bet he gets it from that husband of yours.” She smiled, before frowning. “Speaking of your husband, where is he?” She twirled in place, looking around for William. “I haven’t seen—oh, there he is! William! Oh,  _ Mr Husband _ !” She called in a singsong voice. 

William spun around at hearing his name and caught sight of them. He beamed when he recognized Samira and hurried over. Samira waved lightly, laughing at him. 

“Sammy!” William said teasingly, stepping forward and bringing Samira into a warm hug. “You haven’t grown at all!”

Harry very nearly choked on his saliva from the shock of seeing his father act so informally. Save for when in private, his father was always formal and distant (even with Randolph, to a degree) and Harry had rarely ever heard his father use such a demeaningly playful tone of voice - only occasionally with Alicia, and she hexed him when he did. 

Harry had to bite back a laugh when his mother sidled up to William and smacked him lightly on the back of the head. He did laugh when his father spun around and glared at her, rubbing his nape, while Samira joined him in laughing openly at his parents. 

Harry continued watching, slightly amazed, at his parent’s actions. ‘They’re… they’re acting like kids,’ he realized, holding in a snort, though also glad his parents weren’t feeling downcast. 

Between the slow pace of the search and the admittedly stressful events of the Black Forest with Melia, their nerves had been rather frayed. Even if their base recollection of everything wasn’t  _ the same _ , they still felt the emotions attached to the event, and that feeling of apprehension and wariness had visibly clung to them throughout the last month in Germany. 

It was good, Harry decided, that they had come to Egypt. They were slowly putting the past out of mind, and focusing on the future. He smiled, sitting back down on his chair and propping his head up with his arm, trying to get comfortable. He was silent as his parents talked, not wanting to disrupt them from catching up with an old friend. 

After a few minutes of chatting, whereas Harry was ready to fall asleep right then and there, Samira stood back markedly before gesturing down the hall towards the elevator. “Let’s take this upstairs, shall we? After all, we do need to get you both settled,” Samira glanced at Harry, smiling, “and it looks like your son is about to curl up and fall asleep any second now.”

Alicia, startled, turned to Harry, and smiled when she caught sight of him all curled up in the chair. “Oh,” she remarked, “that’s why he was so quiet.” She moved to pick Harry up while nodding towards William. “William dear, could you take our things?”

William nodded, stepping towards the three trunks they had carried from the cab and discreetly pressing the tip of his wand on each of them, muttering. He then picked all three trunks up - one stacked over the other - with relative ease, before peeking his head over the top of the luggage and moving towards the elevator. Alicia and Samira followed him. Harry was fast asleep.

They reached the elevator and hustled inside, with Samira near the panel to select the right floor. She pressed the last one, gaining a smart glance from Alicia. 

“The _ Penthouse,  _ Samira, dear?”

Samira smiled mischievously, before winking. “I have my secrets.”

William, from behind the two ladies, snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You probably just showed them your—”

“William!” Alicia exclaimed, scandalized, “Why, I never—”

“—wand.” William finished, raising an eyebrow at his wife. “Why, Alicia,  _ whatever  _ did you assume I meant?” he drawled. 

Samira guffawed at Alicia’s rapidly flushed face. Alicia huffed and glared at the both of them, before adjusting Harry in her grip. “Hush, you two. You’ll wake Harry.”

They both quieted down, but William was still smirking and Samira, though her cheeks were tinged pink, was smiling as well. 

A few moments passed before the elevator  _ pinged _ open. “We’re here,” Samira commented. 

“Thank you, Madam Obvious,” Alicia snarked, not resisting the chance to jab at her long-time friend. Samira simply raised an eyebrow at the comment before stepping out into the carpeted hallway. 

William closed his eyes and shook his head gently. “Ladies? Can we get a move on?” He asked, lifting the trunks in his arms pointedly. 

“Hush,” Alicia replied, waving her free hand at him. “You’re not even carrying them muggle-style. Stop complaining.” Regardless, she conceded and stepped out of the elevator, following Samira down the short and well-lit corridor towards the only apartment door at the extremity of the hall. 

Reaching the door, Samira produced her wand and tapped the lock with it smartly. Following, a sharp  _ click _ signified the successful use of the Unlocking Charm. The witch then swung open the door and moved inside the entrance, holding it open for both Alicia and William to pass through. 

The doorway, Alicia noted, led straight into the living room, where she had to restrain herself from whistling out loud at the sight. 

The luxuriously decorated sitting room looked like one of those perfectly arranged covers of  _ A Modern Wizard’s Lair;  _ Alicia was genuinely afraid to move around out of worry she might mess up the picture-perfect scene.

The couches were coloured a suave creme and inlaid with fine green silk on the seat cushions. Velvet pillows lay on both ends of the sofa; golden leaves embroidered into them so delicately that they might’ve just landed there in spring and simply sunk into the fabric, though Alicia knew from experience that they must’ve taken tens of hours to individually sew and craft, even with the aid of magic. 

Alicia scanned the white curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. They were linen and the kind of white that was untouched by hands and devoid of dust. A cursory look to the right showed her the almost hidden cords that would be used to open and close them; if Samira ever bothered to use her hands, that is. There was no television present in the sitting room; whoever had designed the room chose instead to showcase a central bespoken fireplace, with its mantle jutting only slightly out of the wall. 

Two identical bookshelves framed the fireplace, and the photographs arranged on top the chimneypiece of the hearth waved silently at the three adults. They were wizarding pictures, though none of them seemed to be even an inch out of place - even the frames looked professional and distinctly high-class. Around the room, in the spaces between the fireplace and the couch were two matching chairs. All of this encircled a small coffee table in the middle of the velvet-coloured carpet, which had been set for tea.

Samira interrupted Alicia’s appreciation with a pointed order. “Just leave everything on that spot right over there,” the witch said to William, gesturing with her wand towards a patch of highly polished dark wood flooring near the couch, which looked just as free of dust and clutter as the rest of the room. “We can sort it out later,” she said, earning a nod from William. 

Samira then directed Alicia past the kitchen area and into the domestic hallway. They passed several rooms while heading towards their destination, and Samira wasted no time pointing everything out to Alicia. “This one’s mine,” she said, rapping her knuckles onto the wooden door of the master bedroom. “This one’s for you and William, dear,” she commented, splashing an open door on the opposite side of the hallway with a Red Sparks Charm. “This one’s the shared bathroom, though only Harry’ll need it… and this is a spare room. Feel free to use it for whatever,” Samira offered as they passed both doors in quick succession. Alicia merely nodded saying she understood. 

It took them a few more paces before they finally reached the end of the hall and the last door, which led into the smallest of the spare bedrooms. “You can leave little Harry in here,” Samira explained, opening the door and gesturing inside. “I’ve already gone and made the bed, so don’t worry about that.”

Alicia smiled gratefully at her friend, adjusting her son’s head on her shoulder. “Thank you, Samira, for letting us stay here. You’re a lifesaver.”

Samira smirked, waving off the thanks casually. “It’s not a problem, Alicia.” She clapped her hands together softly, leaning in closer. “Now, I’ll let you get this little tyke settled in,” she pinched Harry’s cheek, making him crease his eyebrows together in his sleep, “while I go help out William with the trunks.”

Samira stepped back, allowing Alicia to move towards the bedroom door. “Because let’s face it, if it isn’t studying, he’s pretty much a lost little lamb,” Samira joked, already walking off towards the sitting room area. 

Alicia tittered, rolling her green eyes before tilting her head towards the bedroom door and moving inside. She walked towards the twin-sized bed before casting off the grey covers and white sheets. 

Alicia then hoisted Harry up once for support before laying him down gently on the bed. She stood back and produced her wand, pointing it at the ceiling and weaving a simpler variant of the Atmospheric Charm on the room to keep it at a comfortable temperature throughout the night. She moved in closer and tucked Harry in snugly, before stroking his hair and planting a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“I love you, little one,” Alicia whispered, smiling when Harry mumbled something incomprehensible in return. His mother then quietly tip-toed out the room and shut the door firmly, but not before taking one last look at her sleeping bundle of joy,

After a moment of silence, Harry cracked open one eye and smiled wearily. “Love you too, mum,” he mumbled, already tumbling back into the land of dreams. 

* * *

“I’d like to purchase this book, thank you.”

Harry peered up at the man behind the counter of the bookstore with large, willful eyes. In his outstretched hand, he held a very specific book he had picked up - one he would have been remiss to find anywhere in Britain due to the subject’s terrible reputation.

The clerk raised a bushy eyebrow at him, his eyes wide in disbelief. He was a scruffy old man, but Harry recognized the look in his eyes. “Why, may I ask, young man, would you ever want to buy this book?” It was clear the clerk’s first language wasn’t English, but Harry admired his determination to make his customers as comfortable as possible. 

Harry blinked once, in the most innocent way he could. Inside, though, his mind was racing to find an acceptable answer that would throw the man off his scent. Even if speaking to snakes wasn’t as badly viewed in Egypt as it was in Britain, it still gave off attention - something Harry had been told to avoid. 

_ “Always be discreet _ ,” His mother would tell him.  _ “You never know who may be watching, and what can be used against you.” _

Harry cocked his head at the store clerk. “Well, last week, my mum and I were walking down the markets - it happened then, you see. We had just walked into the live part of the market - I always wanted a pet lizard, and my mother said they had the most beautiful ones here.”

The clerk nodded, and Harry continued his fib. “That’s when I saw him - it was an old man, he had a grey beard and a bald head, and he was hissing. My mum was on the other side looking at the lizards, so I came closer to catch a good look at what he was hissing at. It was a sleek, black, cobra. Of course, I hadn’t known he was speaking to the snakes. Only later, when I mentioned it to my mum, she told me about what a Parselmouth was.” Harry stopped to catch his breath. “After that, I wanted to learn more, so my mum gave me a little bit of money to buy a book about it.”

By the end of his fib, the clerks’ eyes were wide in surprise. He leaned in over the counter, with a gleam in his eye. “A Parselmouth? Around here? Are you sure, boy?”

Harry bit his lip and nodded slowly, giving off an air of uncertainty. “I think so. Maybe he was just…” Harry knocked his skull thrice. “...you know?”

The man behind the counter shook his head and looked off into the distance, distracted. “No… to think! One of the  _ Psylli _ , around here. It’s been ages…”

There was a moment of silence in the air.

Harry furrowed his brow. “Uh, sir? Could I purchase the book now?”

The man nodded, clearly still a bit out of it. “Yes, yes,” he waved his hand around vaguely. “That’ll be 20 Nebu.”

Harry tilted his head as he reached into his robe pockets, fumbling around for his mokeskin pouch. ‘20  _ Nebu is equivalent to 1 Galleon _ ,  _ and  _ that  _ is equivalent to 25 British pounds _ . _ 25 British pounds is… 250 Egyptian pounds, I think. So 1 Nebu is a little more than 12 Egyptian pounds. Interesting,’  _ he mused.

After a beat, Harry grasped the little bag and split the mouth open, reaching inside for the correct amount of Egyptian wizarding currency he needed. 

Having collected the twenty Nebu in his palm, he passed the little gold rectangular stamps over to the shopkeeper, who took them without much fuss. 

Quickly, Harry snatched his book up from the counter and left the musty store, already looking forward to learning more about Parseltongue. The fact that it was  _ hereditary  _ made him wonder all the more just  _ who  _ his parents were. He wondered whether or not they would’ve been pleased that he had inherited such a rare magical ability, or if they would’ve seen it in a bad light. 

Harry considered it for a second more, before shaking his head. It probably wasn’t a point in his favour, honestly. Considering that they were more than likely British, his parents had probably been hoping for him to be born without the ability to speak to snakes. 

Feeling restless and trying to turn his thoughts away from the hypothetical, Harry retrieved his newly-bought book - which he had tucked under his arm for the time being - and stared at its shining leathery cover. He noted that it looked frighteningly like it was made out of real snakeskin. Maybe it was. Harry roamed his eyes over the silver-green details of the cover, appreciating how it was very unassuming and simplistic, even if it looked high-quality. 

If anything, it wasn’t eye-catching, at least. You had to pay attention to recognize the book, which was good. Harry slowly traced the title of the book with his finger.

> **_Pársel_ **

Harry smiled to himself, before heading off in a random direction. He drank in the colours, the aromas and the atmosphere like an elixir of vitality, even though you wouldn’t have been able to differentiate him from the locals by the way he weaved expertly through the crowd. Harry swept his eyes over a pair of sprightly young wizards bartering with a vendor on the bulk price of papyrus rolls. He reached the edge of the designated market area, from when on out the demographic of the commerce bled out of the ‘open-air’ and into physical shops and stores. He beamed at the sight of a young seamstress advertising  _ Beautifying robes _ . According to the witch, it would significantly enhance the attractiveness of the wearer. 

When he heard the wording of her advertisement, Harry had half a mind to ask the last how she had approached the issue of ‘enhancing’ the robes for ‘beauty’, just to gauge whether or not they were high-quality.

Harry knew, from listening to his mother’s rants on ‘mass-produced wizarding fashion,’ that bargain  _ Beautifying robes  _ simply tried to bewitch the robes with a type of mental compulsion charm, which made onlookers compelled to ignore the faults of the wearer. Alicia had raved about ‘cheapskates’ and ‘circumventing the problem’, though she had relented that it was pretty complex magic in its own right. The only issue that it brought on was that the magic could easily be ignored with either enough focus or practice throwing off legal compulsions, which made the robe rather useless. In addition, there was the age-old problem of low-end alternatives simply  _ bewitching _ the object - to keep costs low, the seamstress would simply finish the robe, and then bewitch it with the compulsion magic, meaning that the effect would eventually wear off after a couple of years. 

Harry also knew that the alternative was much harder and more expensive to produce. Alicia had explained, with great passion, the issue: essentially, the expensive  _ Beautifying robes _ were never  _ bewitched  _ with a spell - instead, they were always  _ enchanted  _ with whatever magical effects the customer wanted - which meant whatever magic was needed, it was applied  _ as  _ the fabric of the robes was being woven, which made for a near-everlasting effect. Both aspects of the robe, physical thread and magical spell, were woven simultaneously. His mother would bemoan this fact, explaining that appreciation for the practise was dying out in modern-day magical Britain, and that she was one of the few who bothered enchanting the robes they made. Of course, that meant she could charge a premium, but fewer and fewer witches nowadays bothered to appreciate the benefits of high-end enchanted tailoring. 

Though, from what Harry understood, the difference didn’t end there. In addition, if the seamstress was going to bother with enchanting the robes at all, they always used multiple venues to approach the issue of ‘beautification’, which made them inherently superior to the low-end alternatives. In addition to applying the legal compulsion charms, they always included custom glamour charms woven into the robes, designed to create perfect illusionary enhancements for the wearer. Enchanting them into the robes made the magic  _ very  _ hard to circumvent, even if one tried casting a ‘ _ finite incantatem’  _ or dispelling in some other manner. To his mother,  _ those  _ kinds of robes were genuine pieces of art, and truly above the mass-production that was seen in the modern-day. 

Harry had found the entire explanation fascinating, to be honest. He could also see just why both of his parents were masters of their respective crafts, though they were both labelled  _ enchanters _ . 

Smiling, Harry continued with his exploration. To him, the wizarding side of Egypt seemed so much more vibrant and interesting and intricate, despite it occupying a measly amount of space in comparison.

While walking around the perimeter of the market, Harry would occasionally elect to swoop and veer to the side to greet the store owners; stare at the vats of  _ Everlasting Ink _ on display, or inspect the traditional Egyptian amulets that seemed to be popular. He wondered briefly if they were enchanted, and if the kind of magic varied from the magic in Britain. Were they created with pseudo-Latin-based spells like  _ Salvio hexia  _ or  _ Protego totalum _ ? Perhaps. Or maybe the people here believed they were inherently magical. Both were valid, Harry reasoned. He didn’t doubt them for believing that the divine symbols still had some kind of power.

In all honesty, they more than likely did. Melia was adamant that the Greek gods existed, so the Egyptian deities were probably still around, too. It warranted investigation, at the very least, though Harry wasn’t too sure he  _ wanted  _ to get involved with deities at all. Maybe they valued their privacy? He didn’t know.

Harry continued on his window-shopping, feeling ecstatic as he did so. He did want to explore as much as he could today, though, so he restrained himself from entering the actual shops and buildings lining the outskirts of the open-air wizarding marketplace. Instead, he chose to swerve away from the edge buildings and explore the stalls and street vendors that occupied the centre of the marketplace. 

He passed a group of teenagers dressed in light and breezy clothing, probably with added cooling charms to combat the sweltering spring heat of Cairo. He stifled a smile when one of the younger boys tripped on an uneven flagstone and frantically looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Harry caught the boy’s eye - he was maybe a few years older - and mimed zipping his lips shut. The boy grinned at him and waved before turning around back towards the other teens, who were each buying some kind of pita bread dish stuffed with minced meat and other things. Harry glanced at the sign that read when translated, something close to:  _ “Hawawshi (x 4): 1 Nebu.” _

Nodding to himself, Harry wondered if he should’ve brought more spending money. He could  _ really  _ go with something fried right now. 

Harry then ducked behind a stall selling some kind of headdresses and stepped forward. He caught sight of a little artificial stone hill and climbed atop it before glancing around his surroundings in awe. 

“So this is Cairo’s famed ‘ _ Hekasouk’ _ ,” Harry breathed, having reached the centre of the space occupied by the internationally renowned marketplace, where he could finally catch a glimpse of the enormity of the area. 

A lost child wailed for his mother stumbling around the flagstones. A man frantically searched for his missing dog, whistling sharply whenever something moved in the distance. Shopkeepers screamed out offers on the top of their voices to attract customers and those attracted desperately tried to bargain for the best possible places. This was the ‘ _ Hekasouk’ _ , a place which was always drawing in the sea of people. The ground was gritty stone and the air an annoying mid-spring blister. 

Not a single empty site could be spotted between the stalls. Children too young to practice magic held out hands against their foreheads to shield themselves from the heat or gathered newspaper or magazines to create makeshift fans, while adult witches and wizards walked undisturbed, Cooling Charms unabashedly seeing use under the merciless shine of the sun. Beads of sweat glistened on those unlucky enough to not afford foci, and sweltering red faces were not uncommon. The salty odour of sweat mingled with the nose tingling aroma of spices and the sweet smell of flowers coming from the street vendors. All of these smells mixed together and gave the  _ Hekasouk _ a rather unique scent, which hung in the air all through its open hours; from early morning to late evening.

Harry sighed at the sight before sitting down on the artificial landmark, the little hill of stone, and pulling up his hood to cover his face. He retrieved his book again and opened it, this time nodding to himself, determined not to get distracted by the sights again. 

“Now, let me see what this is all about…” 

> **_Parsél_ **
> 
> _ By Luis Garcia Hernández  _

* * *

> _ Chapter 1 _
> 
> _ Origins and Legacy _
> 
> _ The Psylli (‘Seli’) was a native Berber tribe hailing from Ancient Libya that existed between the years 800 BCE - 100 CE. The large majority of the tribe could speak Parseltongue and were widely known to be Parselmouths, though they were simply referred to as ‘the Psylli’ back then. It is unknown how they obtained this inheritable magical ability.  _
> 
> _ During the height of their rise in population, the Psylli are known to have experienced a nomadic intrigue, which led to the main tribe body sometimes spending as many as three generations away from their home region of Libya.  _
> 
> _ Thus, throughout their travels, many originally from the Psylli tribe decided to break off from the main travelling body and settle down in specific or remote locations. Most of these locations can be considered part of the Mediterranian Basin. _
> 
> _ The Psylli tribe are known to have originally settled along the shores of the Nile river, the plains of the Greater Iberian Peninsula, the southern regions of Roman Italy. A large majority of the Greek land, and small burrows into Asia Minor.  _
> 
> _ The most notable regions include the Kingdom of Egypt, Southern Greater Iberia, the Medit the southern plains of Greater Iberia, and the Mediterranian and Most notably, many of their numbers During their time, the Psylli were known to have visited many civilizations, leaving their influence and descendants wherever they visited. They extended their reach as far as the Congo rainforest southern, the plains of Greater Iberia in the north, the deserts of Libya in the west and the civilizations of Ancient Greece and Rome in the east.  _
> 
> _ Famous descendants of this ancient tribe include the Dark Lord Herpo the Foul, who lived in Ancient Greece circa 400 BCE and is most well known for his practices in the Dark Arts and his experimental breeding, which resulted in the creation of the Basilisco Hibrido. _
> 
> _ Another notable name is Hogwarts Founder Salazar Slytherin. Slytherin’s ancestry is suspected to have origins in Greater Iberia, though his family is thought to have fled the region during the Iberian War of 526-532 CE, and migrated to Britain, upon where they adopted the last name Slytherin. They are believed to have lived in relative obscurity for four-hundred years in the upper parts of Ireland, until the birth of Salazar, circa 950 CE. The nomenclatures ‘Parselmouth’ and ‘Parseltongue’ were popularized by him, and have since been adopted as correct in Great Britain, North America, and a large majority of northern Europe. _
> 
> _ While the actual tribe no longer exists (they are rumoured to have fully died out sometime before 100 CE), their descendants, also called Psylli in context, have since spread all across the world, though known examples are rare. Muggle references to these peoples have since been edited to infer that they were simply a tribe of ‘snake-charmers’. _
> 
> _ [...] _

* * *

Harry snapped shut  _ Parsél,  _ though he allowed a small smile to grow on his face. He rose from his seat on the dusty flagstone hill and patted down his robes, muttering a generous amount of expletives, as though they would somehow help remove the dust that had stuck to him. He found it a little odd that the title was in Spanish while the text itself was in English, but he didn’t complain, figuring instead that it was some choice relating to ‘aesthetics’ or design. He was just glad he understood it, mostly. 

Not wanting to waste any time, Harry stood up abruptly and glanced around, searching for the friendliest-looking stall owner. He decided on a young girl selling flowers - she was probably no more than seventeen, though you never knew with witches. He walked up to her stand and looked up at her. She had her hair out, which Harry had noticed was very uncommon, even amongst witches, and she was humming a tune while bending over something, lost in her own little world. 

He cleared his throat, causing the girl to look up at him from her seat. She glanced at him for one second before smiling and speaking in near-perfect English:

“How can I help you?” She said, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. She sat forward, her equally dark eyes wide and attentive.

Harry grinned, relishing the chance to speak English again with someone other than his family (and Samira). “Could you point me towards the live market, miss?” 

The girl nodded, though she looked mildly concerned. “I can, yes. Why do you want to go?”

Harry shrugged, trying to appear childish (It worked). “I just wanted to look at the snakes. I like snakes.”

She paused, before nodding decisively. “Well, it’s not too safe for a little kid like you to be walking around all alone. I’ll accompany you.” Before Harry could object, the girl had already turned around towards the other end of the stall and leaned over the frame, cupping her hands to her mouth. 

“ _ Khala!” _ she shouted -  _ Auntie! - _ before waving frantically, beckoning to someone in the distance and pointing at the ground. The girl turned around again, before laughing at Harry’s flummoxed expression. 

“You don’t need to come  _ with  _ me, you know?” Harry mumbled, watching the girl’s aunt (presumably) take her place at the stall. The girl slipped out, coming to a stop beside him. She looked at him curiously. 

“What’s your name?” she said, ignoring his earlier comment and walking forwards into the bustling market area. Harry sighed, his shoulders heaving. 

“Harry,” he said, simply, already turning around to follow her. She had longer legs than him (which was rather irritating) so he had to work to keep up. “You?”

“Rashida,” she replied, not even looking over her shoulder. Harry frowned at her back, before shaking his annoyance off. 

He briefly glanced at her choice of clothes and accessories before nodding. Everything she wore was higher-end in quality, and he had noticed the now-familiar outline that the wand holster made under robes. He sped up a little, trying to close the distance between them. “You’re a student at Uagadou, right?” He asked. 

Rashida glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. “What makes you say that?”

Harry grinned at her nonchalant attitude. She clearly wasn’t caving in anytime soon. He rolled his eyes as though it were obvious, before listing off his reasoning on his fingers. “First, we're in Egypt, which is only a little ways from the Mountains of the Moon, regardless of whatever the muggles say - I find it incredibly funny that they think they could ever actually reach Uagadou, much less line it up with any physical mountain range.” 

“Second, your robes are a much higher quality than the rest of the wizards around here, which points to being able to attend Uagadou, again.” Her lips parted minutely in surprise; which Harry counted as a victory, even though it was a rather small one.

Harry raised his third finger. “Finally, I can see the outline of a wand holster on you. Wands are expensive here so that further points towards you being higher-class and thus attending the most prestigious wizarding school in all of Wizarding Africa. Though, I  _ am  _ curious as to why you use a wand. I was under the impression it wasn’t common around here...?”

Rashida was silent for a good minute before she answered. “You’re kinda freakily good at the whole analysis thing.”

Harry ducked his head. “Sorry, it just - I blurt stuff out like that. My bad.”

She waved his unease off. “Don’t worry. I’m impressed - you managed to figure all that out just by looking at me. It’s a good skill to have.” Rashida nodded idly, taking a left round a food stall. “But you’re right. I do go to Uagadou. It’s my last year there.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Where is it?”

Rashida looked at him funnily. “What? You don’t already know?” She joked, laughing when he turned bright red. “I’m kidding. It’s top-secret, so I can’t tell you much. To be honest, I’d be surprised if you  _ did  _ know how we ran things. Even the summer program students have to sign non-disclosure contracts before they visit. It is a good school though.” 

Rashida paused, having reached a ten-foot-tall archway that led to another area. “How about you?” She asked, leaning onto the divisive walls of the  _ Hekasouk  _ and its sister markets. “What school are you shooting for? Beauxbatons?”

Harry shook his head. “Hogwarts. My parents both got in, so...”

Rashida nodded. “Figures. You don’t sound too much like a Brit, though.”

“ _ Lugha wāhidah lā takfī,”  _ Harry replied, smirking.  _ One language is never enough.  _

Rashida’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “W-what?  _ Hal tatahadath lughat 'ukhraa bijanib alearabia? _ ” She asked, straightening in interest.  _ What languages do you speak besides English? _

Harry idly shifted in place, before answering, “German, Greek and Arabic. A little French.”

“ _ Min sijak?” _ she exclaimed.  _ Are you serious? _ Harry nodded. Rashida whistled. “That’s pretty impressive, then. I’m bilingual, myself.” She then glanced up at the sun, before frowning and walking through the archway. She turned around and beckoned him to follow. “Come on, I’ve wasted enough of your time. Let’s get you in front of some snakes.”

Harry beamed.

* * *

A man rushed through the crowds, breathing fast and hard, though his footsteps were light and silent on the flagstones, nimbly darting with practised ease despite his imposing frame. He ignored the startled cries of those strangers he knocked over, choosing instead to escape before any of them could call attention to it. He wore a combination of linen undershirt and leather overwear, all coloured the same as his mantle; a large black cloak fastened by a golden brooch billowed as he ran, fluttering but never seeming to get in the way of his agile movements. 

He stopped suddenly, glancing around once before nodding and turning on his heel, entering a small, dingy establishment. Nameless, the outside of the kiosk looked run down and worn to pieces, with its entrance being guarded by only a thin shimmering veil that served as a door. He wasn’t fooled, though. He quietly brushed past the flowing purple fabric and stepped into the equally despairing hallway behind it. With measured steps, he crept along the length of the creaky floorboards, careful not to trigger any creaks. He might’ve silenced himself with skill, but the floor held no such reservations. 

He reached the end of the hallway without trouble and searched the otherwise unobtrusive door for the only distinguishing mark; the golden symbol that would be painted on the side of the frame, the one that matched his own. 

Finding the symbol to the far bottom left, he reached down and pressed three fingers inside the small box of the hieroglyph, listlessly watching it glow softly for a second before the wooden door in front of him shimmered out of view, displaying an open entrance in its stead. 

He took that as a sign of permitted entry and stepped into the spacious room inside. It was much larger than what should’ve been permitted by the laws of normality, but  _ they  _ never really concerned themselves with those trivial matters. It was a sitting room, of sorts, the centre occupied by many seats, cushions and couches of warm and earthy tones. The entire perimeter of the room maintained an uninterrupted surface top pushed against the walls. It was covered by a deep hue of simple red cloth, upon which rows and rows of candles flickered, casting mixed shadows onto the surfaces of the chamber. He cast his gaze to the centre of the meeting room, where two distinct figures sat;

The first was a woman; she sat sensually on a large cushioned armchair, her legs crossed elegantly under her long, luxurious ankle-length satin garb. She shifted with his arrival, and he caught proper sight of her open-footed strappy stilettos under the candlelight. Her dress was fitted, non-traditional around these parts, with a high-waist and a small train that draped onto the carpeted floors of the room. 

Her left hand rested on her lap; drawing attention to a gold ring adorned with a large emerald gem; the right brushed her red lips lightly, showing a hint of pearly white teeth behind her open-sleeved black silk attire. Atop her head; thinly encasing dark rivulets, sat a thin golden headdress paired with a long, rectangular scarf that wrapped around her crown and pinned itself in place at her shoulders. 

Finally, a gold pendant shaped into the ever-recurring hieroglyph hung around her neck, attractively pressing against her silk covered chest in the deep maroon candlelight. Her bright aureate eyes flickered towards him as he entered, as brilliantly golden as her jewellery. 

The second figure noticed the movement of the woman and adjusted his positioning on his chair to face the newcomer accordingly. He was distinctly male; large, broad shoulders and heavy build only enforced this notion further. His shoulder-length silvery hair shifted slightly as his head turned, though a large majority of it was secured into a militaristic bun. 

He was wearing simple linen garb, in equally dark tones as his female companion, though it seemed to accentuate his age and experience rather than youth or beauty. Besides the now pronounced wrinkles and the firm line his mouth had turned into, the man gave no further reaction to his presence, save for a single commanding tap of his booted foot on the ground before him. 

Though the ensemble of a large cloak and golden brooch the silver-haired man wore matched his own, it looked to cover a much larger frame, barely hiding the glint of the thick dragon-hide chest piece that had uncovered itself with a shift in the man’s positioning. Along with hints of leathery greaves and shin guards, a long, dangerously sharp silver-white  _ khopesh _ was strapped to the man’s waist, it’s gleaming curved blade barely visible between the folds of the cloak. The man’s harsh argentate eyes surveyed him as he moved forward, as wickedly sharp as his blade. 

The newcomer stepped forward thrice before kneeling in respect before the two figures. There was a brief moment of heavy silence before he spoke, his voice a soft, youthful monotone.  _ “It shall be very, very hidden.” _

The golden-eyed woman looked down at him, contemplative. “ _ No one shall know it, no one shall see it,” _ she continued the verse solemnly. The candlelights flickered in the windless room. 

The silver-haired man breathed out quietly, his dark jawline unclenching. “ _ Apart from the sundial that gazes on its secret.”  _ A low, unnatural hum accompanied the recital. 

Still kneeling, the newcomer began anew, not skipping a beat.  _ “The officiating priests shall enter silently, their bodies veiled _ .” A beat of a drum, echoing dully. 

The glint of gold twinkled in the light. “ _ So that they shall be protected against sudden death.” _

_ “Those unworthy may not enter, may not see anything, _ ” The silver blade gleamed in the dark.

_ “So decrees Per-Ankh, the House of Life,”  _ the newcomer finished, almost instantly removing his hood in one smooth swipe of his hand. He stood still, his face never leaving the carpeted ground, and his smoothly shaved head covered in tattoos shone under the candlelight of the room. His one good eye, marked with kohl, gleamed with anticipation of what was to come. 

The golden-eyed woman and the silver-haired man shared a glance, wondering how to approach the youngster before them. The man tilted his head slightly, and the woman snapped her fingers, the noise deadening the otherwise quiet room.

“Rise,” she commanded. The newcomer complied, rising steadily before bowing steeply. 

“Nebu,” he said, angling his bow towards the woman. “Hedj,” he said, performing the same to the man. “I bring news from the streets.”

Nebu leaned back into her seat, her silky dress shifting casually over her shapely legs. She rolled her  _ kohl- _ marked eyes. “You needn’t bow, Cato. You know this.” 

Cato made no sound, simply nodding, which immediately put Nebu on edge. Usually, the young recruit was quick to return with a cheesy attempt at a pick-up line, or a depreciating comment about loyal servitude, all with a cheeky grin in place. But apparently, now was not the time. Hedj simply grunted, rolling his shoulders. 

“Well,” Nebu sighed, resting her head effortlessly in her right hand, still managing to appear royal despite her lousy attitude. “Get on with it, then.” Hedj huffed from his seat.

Cato reached into the folds of his cloak, bringing out the small, rectangular form of a black mobile phone. He spent a few seconds deliberating with the device before he passed it to Nebu, who plucked the mobile from Cato’s outstretched hand immediately. 

Nebu, already interested in whatever news required video evidence, pressed ‘play’ and stared at the screen. A moment passed as the video played; the sound was tinny but audible. Nebu’s face quickly lost all casualness, and she raised the mobile to her ear in concentration. Her eyebrows furrowed minutely for a second before her eyes widened. 

“ _ Min yatakalam lughat althaeabin,”  _ she breathed, momentarily dropping her passive expression for one of shock.  _ One who speaks the language of the snakes. _

Hedj shook his head violently, his stoic demeanour disappearing entirely. He leaned over to stare at the screen. “He is a  _ snake-wizard _ , truly?”

Cato nodded, smiling eagerly. “He possesses the serpent-tongue, yes.” Hedj leaned back into his chair, his thick, scarred fingers already rubbing his temples tiredly. 

“One of the  _ Psylli _ ,” Nebu concurred, her lips twisting into a sickly ravishing grin.

Hedj scowled, crossing his muscled, coppery arms in mild distaste. “He’s too…  _ white _ .”

Nebu sent a sharp glance his way, as though warning him to continue further. “That doesn’t matter. You  _ know  _ it doesn’t. It matters only that he speaks it.” Hedj brushed the rebuke off with a shrug, already used to his superiors nagging after so many years. 

Nebu refocused on the video that was still playing on repeat, almost reverently. She licked her lips with a hungry gleam in her eyes. “...and speak it he does.”

Cato perked up, recognizing Nebu’s tone of voice. “When do we act,  _ hem-netjer _ ?”

“Soon,” she replied, handing the phone back to Cato easily. She paused for a second, closing her eyes in thought, before speaking. “Place a tracking spell on him, and tail him for a fortnight. Find out his manners, patterns, habits. We can’t afford to dally too long, though. It’s obvious he’s a tourist. They don’t stick around long.” 

Hedj, who had been mostly quiet, stared at Cato with impassiveness written all over his face. “Do you  _ know what this means _ , Cato?” He prompted, eyebrow raised and hand cupping his chin, gaze assessing.

Cato shifted in place, nodding his head. “I do,  _ Emir _ . It means we may finally be able to free them from their imprisonment!” he whispered excitedly. “They will reward us greatly for our efforts, surely.”

Hedj sent him a sharp glare. “Hush, do not speak of such things in the open. It is banned, even if done as an act of foolishness - you would do well to remember that the walls have ears, even here. You are young, so I will forgive your mishap, just this once.”

Cato ducked his head, ears burning red. “Yes,  _ Emir _ . I apologise,  _ Emir _ .”

Hedj’s silver eyes softened. “Nevertheless, you are right. It is a dangerous path we walk, on the outskirts of the House.”

Nebu, who had been watching the interaction keenly, spoke up, reassuring the man and the teenaged boy with simple words. “Do not fret, both of you.  _ The exiled path we walk shall not be lost to the sands of time _ . We shall make sure of it, no matter what our foolish brethren may think Egypt needs. Now, I must go.” 

She glanced imperiously at Hedj, before commanding him. “Accompany me. We have much to prepare, now.” 

Hedj nodded, standing and making way to the door of the candlelit chamber.

Nebu rose, stepping forward and standing next to Cato. She glanced down at him, while he bowed steeply, much to her bemusement. She placed a hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to rise. He did, though he did not meet her searching gaze. After a moment, she muttered. “You know what you must do. Prove yourself to the  _ netjeru _ .”

The teen nodded. “I shall.”

Nebu looked away. “Peace be with you,” she said, before making her way to the door and slinking through it, hips swaying naturally. Hedj followed her silently, ever the trained soldier. 

**“** And you,” Cato said quietly, left alone in the room with only his thoughts for company. 

* * *

“ _ Tosbeho ‘ala khair!  _ Goodbye!” Harry called, waving animatedly at Rashida.  _ “ _ Thank you so much!  _ Shukran jazīlan _ !”

He heard Rashida laugh, before returning with her own yelled greeting. He smiled, heading out of the crowds of the  _ Hekasouk _ and through the illusionary wall that, when passed through, led straight into the multitude of the muggle market on the other side. Harry was grinning as he walked through, watching all the muggles simply pass by without noticing his sudden appearance. Muggle-Repelling wards were amazing. 

He slid into the muggle crowd, already a bit hurried. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but he knew that he should probably find his way back to the designated  _ rendezvous _ , lest his parents find the need to use a tracking spell to find him. 

...his mother,  _ especially _ . 

If he was just one minute behind schedule, she’d sniff him out like a bloodhound and then once she found him, she’d lock  _ him  _ in his room for the rest of the month, much like a kennel. He sighed, swerving away from an old man rubbing a golden oil-lamp and muttering. 

A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the bakery they had agreed to meet at six o’clock. At least, he  _ thought  _ it was the right one. Harry bravely looked through the window, trying to confer whether or not this  _ was _ the right one. He stared at the occupied tables, trying to find his parents amongst the hustle.

In all honesty, the place wasn’t that impressive. It was a huddle of a shop. So much of the space had been taken up by the ovens behind the countertop and the mouth-watering displays that the customers were left little room to squeeze in and out. Nevertheless, that didn’t seem to stop it from dragging in hungry muggles by the dozen.

From the cracked checkered floor tiles, Harry could only imagine the store to be older than himself, though the sign above the display window -  _ Ganim’s Galley - _ was freshly painted in black and white flowing script. With the cakes beckoningly sweet, the aroma of fresh-baked cookies and bread took him by the hand and led him inside. He figured that even if it wasn’t the right bakery, he could always stop by for a snack. It wouldn’t hurt. 

Harry grinned as he pushed the glass door inwards, hearing the tell-tale ring of the bell above marking his arrival - just like his father’s shop back in Tutshill.

* * *

Harry flopped onto his bed in the apartment with a contented sigh. It  _ had  _ been the _ right  _ bakery to go to, regardless if it had been the actual rendezvous point. 

Solely because of the  _ basbousa  _ they baked.

Oh,  _ Merlin _ ! It was  _ magical _ .

Harry drooled at the thought.

—and the  _ English scones, too _ —

“Ugh _.  _ So  _ good _ ,” Harry groaned, remembering the texture of the baked goods, and the smell… it was utterly and deliriously  _ intoxicating _ .

“Mmmm…” he mumbled, smacking his lips.

Harry flipped himself over and snuggled into his pillow, inhaling the freshly-cleaned scent. He sighed again, his mind wandering from food to his trip at the live market earlier today. He snickered, thinking of the reaction that cobra had when Rashida had pointed out its colour was off.

_ “ _ Who knew that snakes could be  _ so sour?” _

_ He  _ didn’t, that much was sure. 

* * *

**A/N:** _ I’m so sorry for the late chapter, people. I hope that the quality - emphasis on  _ hope  _ \- makes up for it.  _

_ On an unrelated note, I’ve still got no Beta reader. Shit’s tough, man. Thankfully, two very wonderful users are somewhat filling that role, if only unofficially. Cheers to them! _

**Read and Review!**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: The story is set 20 years in the future. For reference, Harry was born on the 31st of July, 2000.
> 
> Romance only becomes a real subplot after Book Five (Fourth Year at Hogwarts). Any younger is just weird to write.
> 
> Chapters bi-weekly, on Sunday!
> 
> Note that this is my first attempt at fanfiction. I'm very much a novice and would appreciate and enjoy feedback and constructive criticism, so please review! Also, if you have any questions, leave them in a review or send me a DM, and I'll try to answer them best I can!


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